


Man Overboard

by GrayceAdamsArchive, LeeBarnett



Category: Overboard (1987), Phineas and Ferb
Genre: Amnesia, Attempted Murder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dysphoria, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Overboard AU, PTSD, Suicidal Themes, Trans Character, but hopefully this is less dubconny than the movie is djkdfjsd, discussion of suicide, everyone lives in seattle for some unexplained reason, faux technology, i know nothing about yachts or security tech this is for Funsies, i used the fridged wife trope a little im sorry, miggs is annie peter is dean, not agents or villains au, not nemeses au, peter makes Bad Decisions when sleep deprived, tags to be updated as I go, unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-12-27 05:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12074670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayceAdamsArchive/pseuds/GrayceAdamsArchive, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeBarnett/pseuds/LeeBarnett
Summary: Miguel Ortega is perfectly happy,everyonewants to be him. He’s rich, handsome, pampered, and lives on ayachtfor God’s sake. He has everything and anything he could ever want immediately at his disposal, from the newest tech to play with, to a butler waiting on him hand and foot. But one quick, unscheduled dip in the icy waters near Seattle later, he’s suddenly not Miguel Ortega anymore.Miggs Orso thinks he may have been happy once upon a time. He’s got amnesia after what he suspects is a failed suicide attempt and a pretty cute husband that won’t even hold his hand. Not to mention there's his three rowdy children that act like they were raised by animals and his neighbors that seem to be closer to Miggs’ family than he could ever hope to be.He wonders when he gets to go back to the life he knew before, even if that life isn’tquitewhat he thinks it is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sO in case the summary and tags didnt clue u in: this isn't a story about Annie and Dean, sorry! I've taken the movie Overboard (1987) and rubbed my rare pair all over it, so if that's not what ur here for, sorry to disappoint! :( 
> 
> for everyone else!! this is mo, which some of you may have read before but i'm finally getting around to editing it and posting it bc i did a twitter poll and 75% of the whopping 11 voters are enablers XD so ive decided Fuck It, im gonna just post my wips and be done with it, its fanfic it doesnt need to be perfect and its a rare pair there are only about 7 of you reading this ship anyway jkfskdfkl 
> 
> anyway no spoilers but if you've seen overboard you should sort of know whats coming tho obviously some of the details have changed to fit miggs and peter ;0 but ive also altered a few plot points as well just for Funsies so hopefully it'll still be a fun ride <3 
> 
> im not gonna promise any sort of update schedule bc i am the Worst about sticking to those and my writing muse likes to take LONG vacations (sob) but ive got 13 chapters already so this fic at least should update a couple times a week probably for a month or three ;u; 
> 
> (also im still keeping all my works locked to registered users bc that whole mess w HYP has me v paranoid now so...yeah. dont repost shit yall it Feels Bad for the guy ur stealin from :( anyway enjoy the fic see yall next chap sorry for this super long opening note holy shit wheeze)
> 
> Special shout outs to DoctorV and b7nnyst7ffs for betaing and helping me with miggs' spanish ;0 <3

Peter was more than used to being looked down on, at least in a metaphorical sense. He was really too tall for most people to  _ actually  _ look down on him, but a lot of them managed to do it anyway, heads craned back to peer up at him and his hearing aids, clunky sunglasses, and tattoos, if he had his sleeves rolled up that particular day. Judging the book by its cover and all that.

The man in front of him now was almost as tall as Peter, maybe an inch or so shy, but the snooty look on his face made up for the minor lack, and Peter had rarely felt so belittled since he’d shot up to six foot four in his teens.

_ “No hablas español, ¿verdad?”  _ the man said, words rolling off his tongue in a clipped but natural Spanish accent, the meaning sailing right by Peter, who had enough trouble grasping English on days he’d had less than six hours of sleep. Running on four, he simply gave the man a blank look and received a heavy, disappointed sigh for his effort.

“Clearly not,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “Do you at least speak  _ English? _ ” Peter nodded and then shrugged, noting that his client’s own English was good but lilted clearly with an accent, catching on his Rs most noticeably.

The man blinked unimpressed eyes at Peter for a moment, mouth pursing before he sighed and said, “You’re the security system expert I called for, yes?” Peter nodded again, lifting the black bag he had in one hand to show him the logo on the side. The man flicked his eyes over it briefly, a hint of a sneer appearing on his mouth while he crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. His hips rolled with the movement, making the afternoon sun catch on the pale material of his shorts under the sheer…robe or something he was wearing over the rest of his body. Peter wondered why wealthy people wore such utterly useless clothing; the knee-length, full-sleeved garment did absolutely nothing to protect the man’s dark skin from the sun, simply wrapping him in a cocoon of airy fabric.

“Great,” the man said dryly, obviously not all that enthused by Peter’s arrival. “Follow me.”

Peter rolled his eyes when the man turned around sharply on one bare heel, gossamer coat swirling around him dramatically. The call to Seattle Security Solutions had supposedly been some kind of emergency, but every second he was here was starting to make Peter think it was anything but.

Peter followed his client up the ramp and onto the sleek white yacht trimmed in black,  _ Mystery  _ painted on the side of the bow in looping paint. It was a luxury vessel, which weren’t really uncommon in Bell Harbor, but it was the first one that had demanded a security technician to board and tune up their systems since Peter had moved to Seattle a few years ago.

“Señor Ortega,” called a man from a deck above them, leaning over the railing with a platter in one hand. “Dinner will be served shortly in the—”

_ “Cállate,  _ I’m busy,” Ortega snapped, dismissing him with a wave of his hand, glancing over his shoulder at Peter with narrow eyes. “My system’s been- _ que se dice- _ glitching ever since we made port in San Francisco. I’ve gone over the whole thing and can’t figure out what the hell’s wrong with it. Su compañía assured me you were the best.” He paused at a narrow door way set into the body of the ship, looking over his shoulder to give Peter a doubtful look, clearly not impressed with the figure Peter cut standing behind him. Peter didn’t even blink, remaining impassive in the face of Ortega’s rudeness.

When Ortega turned away to open the door, Peter returned to scrutinizing the man, lingering some to check out Ortega’s ass through the sheer fabric of his coat. The shorts he was wearing were high-waisted but cut almost like a woman’s bikini bottoms, the edge tracing high on his hip and his ass, which was very nice for someone who was apparently a total jerk.

Ortega pushed the door open and led Peter down into the bowels of the yacht, one hand brushing along the guardrail as he ghosted down the steps, feet nearly silent on the metal. Peter smirked and dropped all his weight as heavily as he could with every step; the structure was solid and took it more than easily, but the vibration along the metal made Ortega jump and nearly slip, clutching the handrail as he whirled around to stare up at Peter.

Peter simply raised an eyebrow and continued down the staircase, dropping his weight just a little heavier than necessary.

_ “Dios, _ ” Ortega muttered, hand nearly clutching the rail as he hurried down the steps ahead of Peter. Smirking, Peter followed him along a narrow hallway between the inner machinery of the yacht to a small room that was clearly the center of the security systems and other electrical functions of the ship.

Ortega stood to one side as Peter started looking over the system, noting the brand and trying to remember if it was one of the ones known for shorting out, or currently on recall. It looked fairly new, so he started unpacking his tools and running diagnostics, trying to find the problem. There was something coming up, something in the system failing to fire and connect to the rest of it and making the whole section go down.

“I triple checked the wiring and connections,” Ortega said snidely when Peter pried open the access panel to check the twisting wires and circuit boards inside for damage. Ortega shifted back and forth as Peter ignored him and kept working, automatically running through basic checklists and tests, going down the familiar lineup of perpetrators from most to least likely.

It was very warm in the small room, and as Peter worked he kept having to stop and wipe sweat from his forehead, pausing to roll up his sleeves after a few minutes.

Peter didn’t miss the soft intake of breath from Ortega when he did, looking up to see Ortega staring at his forearms, face soft and open for a brief moment. Peter stared, watching Ortega’s eyes darken visibly, betraying his interest even as he quickly morphed his expression into a condescending scowl.

“What are you staring at? You’re supposed to be working,” Ortega snapped, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter smirked. Peter shrugged, tilting his head to one side and dragging his gaze over Ortega as obviously as possible, taking in Ortega’s dark, freckled skin and his sweet, round facial features, thick curls slicked back from his forehead. A dark flush appeared on Ortega’s face as Peter let his eyes wander down over Ortega’s chest and stomach, to the curve of his hips, outlined by the pale shorts, barely hidden by his sheer coat.

When Peter looked up again, Ortega appeared to be holding his breath, expression torn between interest and scorn. Peter sat back on his heels a little, smirk growing as he twisted a tool in his hands unnecessarily, flexing more than strictly needed in order to unscrew the interchangeable head off. Ortega scowled, clearly blushing and looking away, posture hunched as he crossed his arms over his chest. Peter turned back to his work, keeping an eye on Ortega as he did. While Ortega was a pompous dick, he was also rather good-looking, and while Peter had no intentions of starting anything when he was supposed to be working, it never hurt to look.

Ortega was clearly a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight around and alternating between staring at Peter and trying to ignore him. The humidity and heat of the small space, which Peter guessed was right next door to the engine room, clearly wasn’t helping; Ortega used one side of his useless coat to fan himself, flashing Peter his chest and stomach enough times for Peter to catch sight of a couple of pale scars tracing the underside of his pectorals, old and smoothed by time until they were nearly invisible.

Filing away that observation,Peter continued his work, subtly angling himself to best show the flex and tightening in his arms as he unbolted the next panel, grunting a bit at the stubbornness of the wingnut. Peter could see Ortega staring as he finally got it to budge, twisting the wrench until it spun free completely and he was able to lift the panel free. Peter smirked at Ortega, who was flushed and fidgety, starting to look a little frazzled. If Peter hadn’t caught him staring so much, he might have just thought it was the general warmth of the room and being an impatient ass, but the wide, dark pools of Ortega’s eyes told him differently.

Peter watched Ortega covertly out of the corner of his eye as he worked, not missing the man shifting from foot to foot, squeezing his knees together, the way he couldn’t stop staring at Peter. It was very flattering, even considering that Ortega was a prick.

Peter wiped one of his hands on the leg of his pants to clean the streak of grease he’d picked up reaching around a pipe to get to a small black box in the back that was blinking dully and sitting a bit crooked.

“This is taking forever!” Ortega snapped from behind him, and Peter looked up to see Ortega staring at him furiously, flushed and trembling visibly, a tension in his body Peter usually only saw in people splayed beneath him in bed. It made Peter wonder how long it had been since Ortega had gotten laid, if he was reacting so strongly just to a visual he found pleasing.

Peter shrugged in response, trying to flick a bit of oil from the bottom of the access panel off his hand before twisting his first two fingers in the fist of his other to rub them dry. Ortega stared, and Peter fought not to let any of his amusement touch his features as he twisted and then pushed his fingers into his fist in a way that was highly reminiscent of something far more obscene in nature than just cleaning off his hands. Ortega’s face flooded with a blush, darkening from the roots of his hair to his jaw, even his chest through the part of his jacket flushing with embarrassment and arousal.

He shuddered, and Peter wondered for a second if Ortega really  _ was  _ going to try something, throw himself at Peter, attempt to live out some sort of porn-inspired fantasy of fucking the repairman.

But instead Ortega just snarled and turned on his heel, storming up the stairs and out of sight.

Shaking his head and ignoring the low-burn of interest in the pit of his stomach from Ortega’s hungry gaze, Peter went back to work, mulling over Ortega in the back of his mind as he repaired the faulty box in the back. It had a broken wire and was crooked in its bracket, so he carefully realigned it and clipped the wire, replacing it. He slid out of the access panel and tested the system, giving a satisfied grunt when everything worked perfectly, his thoughts half on Ortega and the way he’d been looking at Peter. It’d been awhile since he’d had anyone look at him with that much heat, and he had to admit it was a little dizzying when he wasn’t trying to ignore it in favor of work.

* * *

Miguel Ortega did his damnedest to ignore the hot clutch of arousal between his legs as he hurried up the stairs, trying to put that repair man out of his mind. Miguel hadn’t had such a visceral reaction to someone just on appearance since he’d been a teenager, and that had only been over fictional people, romance novels and celebrities any kid discovering masturbation could goad themselves into a tizzy over.

This swamping sensation of desire for the man kneeling on the floor and rolling up his sleeves, tattoos and muscles and hair…

Miguel shook himself, rubbing his hands over his arms to try and dispel the goosebumps that had broken over his skin as he paced along the main deck of the ship. Sweat cooled over his skin in the damp air, and he scowled, trying to think of anything but the stupid, arrogant,  _ hot  _ repair man tinkering around with Miguel’s security system downstairs. This was ridiculous. Getting so hot and bothered over someone trying to fix his security system like he was in a bad porno.

Still, the repair guy  _ was  _ very good-looking. And he  _ had  _ looked at Miguel like he was intrigued, a little curious, maybe a little interested, eyes dragging over Miguel’s body like a firebrand until he was practically squirming and melting into a puddle on the floor.

He felt incredibly hot for how much cooler it was on the main deck rather than the security room. Shivering, he paced for a few minutes, fighting the urge to go to his cabin and jerk off. Nothing more embarrassing than getting so flustered by some  _ nobody _ that stomped onto his ship like they owned it. 

Growling under his breath, Miguel ripped off his sheer robe and cast it aside, the fine fabric somehow managing to feel like sandpaper against his skin. He threw himself down into a lounge chair with a sigh, shutting his eyes and trying to find some part of his head that wasn’t being overruled by his stupid instincts. 

Not to say that his instincts didn’t have relatively good taste. The repair guy was handsome, at least. Not the creepy, greasy, probably-lives-in-his-mother’s-basement sort of guy Miguel had anticipated. No, instead he was tall and broad and clearly strong, strong enough to wrench open a panel with ease, strong enough to pick Miguel up probably. 

Pick him up and pin him down and really do anything he wanted. Hold him still to be teased, push and grab and restrain Miguel as much as he wanted—

Biting his lip, Miguel opened his eyes to make sure no one was around to watch as he slid a hand down between his legs to rub at the sensitive heat there. A small groan slipped out of him as he quickly worked his fingers against the crux of his thighs, circling and stroking until his breath was coming fast and hard. Brief fantasies of the man downstairs flickered through Miguel’s head, wondering what his mouth tasted like, what his voice sounded like crying out in pleasure, if he would grip Miguel close or hold him down as he took his pleasure selfishly. Miguel wondered if he would clutch him almost tight enough to hurt as he came inside Miguel’s body. 

Miguel shuddered, body tensing and trembling as he bit the meat of his free hand, muffling his ragged breathing as he came. He hunched over as his body clenched and shivered around nothing, wetness soaking the crotch of his pants. 

Fighting to catch his breath, Miguel relaxed back onto the lounger, feeling a little light-headed. It’d been awhile since he’d gotten off, and even longer since he’d gotten off  _ well.  _ He tried not to think too much about how it was to fantasies of the repair man. 

“Migsy, sweetie!” Miguel jumped at the sound of approaching footsteps, pushing himself to his feet to see his husband striding towards him, smiling his thousands of dollars of dental work smile. 

“Aaron,” Miggs sighed, wishing he’d bought a bigger boat so it’d be easier to hide from his spouse. Aaron just grinned and grabbed Miguel’s wrist, trying to pull him closer. Miguel resisted, yanking his hand out of Aaron’s grip. 

“I’ve told you not to grab me,” Miguel snapped, wanting to cuss him out in Spanish, but knowing it would only irritate Aaron, who would in turn resort to more grabbing. 

“Don’t be so frigid, Migsy,” Aaron complained, pouting when Miguel just scowled. “Did your little repair boy find the problem?” 

“I don’t know, he’s still working,” Miguel said through gritted teeth, side stepping Aaron so he wouldn’t see him blushing at the mention of the repair man. “I’ll go check on him.”

* * *

 

Peter was often the type of person to lie to himself, but it was sort of hard to deny that he found Ortega attractive. Dark and tall and apparently  _ very  _ eager, and clearly into Peter just as much, if not more. Peter was sure if he’d teased the man much more he’d have thrown himself into Peter’s lap. Though that might have just been his ego and imagination talking fantasy.

Still, the mental image of Ortega in his lap wasn’t an unpleasant one. Just the man’s attitude gave Peter a faint sense of distaste at the thought of fucking him.

Though, being honest, it wouldn’t have been the worst person he’d have slept with, probably.

He was just letting his mind drift in the direction of possibly opening that door for Ortega, offering a phone number, maybe a bar nearby they could drink at until Peter could stand Ortega’s personality enough to get close, when the sound of footsteps on the stairs made him look up again.

“Are you done yet?” Ortega was standing on the bottom step, arms crossed over his chest and sans his useless robe. Peter nodded, pulling out his pocket notebook to write Ortega a note.

_ Broken wire in the back. Easy fix. _

Ortega reluctantly came closer to read it before scowling ferociously. 

“What! Where? Show me!” he demanded, and Peter obligingly gestured at the open panel in front of himself, pointing past Ortega when he crouched down to look. 

“But that’s part of  _ my _ system!” Ortega snarled, shoving at Peter’s legs and climbing over him until he could slide his head and one arm into the compartment. 

This left Peter with Ortega nearly in his lap, on his knees between Peter’s legs and bent over so Peter had a clear view of his ass and crotch, the white material visibly damp. Peter swallowed weakly at the sight, wondering if Ortega had really run off to masturbate because of Peter’s teasing. 

Peter’s imagination ran a little wild with that as Ortega’s hips swayed back and forth in front of him, easily within reach and very tempting even though the man himself was rather rude. 

Peter wondered if Ortega even realized what a show he was putting on, if he was doing it on  _ purpose _ , and he almost wanted to reach out and grab both sides of Ortega’s ass to hold him still so he could press his mouth to the damp crotch of his pants. 

“Migsy darling, did your repair guy...oh.” Peter looked up to see a man in a white and blue sailor suit that was clearly meant to be reminiscent of the Navy in the 40s, but instead just made the man look like a large child out of a cartoon. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at Ortega practically in Peter’s lap. 

Peter fought the urge to blush, and the man’s mouth curled into a bit of a leer, hands going to his hips as he nodded to where Ortega was bent over Peter. 

“Someone’s been fucking around with my mods!” Ortega snarled, bracing a hand on Peter’s knee to push himself back out of the access compartment. 

“Mi-mi, I told you to stop playing with shit like that, they always break,” the man on the stairs sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets as Ortega turned to glare at him, apparently barely aware Peter existed for the moment. 

“Don’t call me Mi-mi, Aaron,  _ odio eso _ ,” Ortega snapped. “And they only break when you bring those ‘ _ specialists’  _ of yours that are really just your,” Ortega shifted his weight to form sarcastic air quotes as he continued, “ _ buddies _ , trying to steal my tech.” Peter grunted a bit in discomfort as Ortega’s full weight landed in Peter’s lap as he tried to stand up, and there was a brief moment where Ortega gasped in a way that had Peter struggling not to reach a new level of unprofessionalism. Flustered, Peter grabbed Ortega’s waist and pushed him back to his feet, apparently surprising Ortega a little since he stumbled before regaining his balance. Peter got to his feet as well, doing his best to pretend that this wasn’t one of the oddest calls he’d been on for Es-Three. 

“Also, you repaired it with a blue wire, cabrón, it’s supposed to be red,” Ortega said, turning to glare at Peter, his cheeks dark with anger and possibly embarrassment. Peter just rolled his eyes. He’d checked the wire against his own supply; other than the color of the casing, they were identical. “Now I have to replace it myself, I might as well have not hired you.” Peter scowled at that, anger flushing through him when Ortega started tossing Peter’s tools carelessly back into his bag. “Get the hell off my ship, idiot.” Growling, Peter snatched the bag away from Ortega and packed up the rest of his things, slamming the access hatch shut for Ortega to pry open himself later if he was really going to be so snotty about the color of the wire casing. Ortega shouldered past his spouse on his way back to the main deck, leaving Peter to follow so he could collect his pay.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Ortega snapped when he turned around to see Peter following him. “Get off my damn boat!” Peter scowled and held out a hand, raising his eyebrows pointedly before rubbing the tips of his fingers together. “Fuck you, I’m not paying for a  _ chapuza _ I have to redo myself!” Peter’s mouth fell open in shock and outrage, and Ortega stiffened, quickly hurrying away, snapping in Spanish at a couple unfortunate servants that scurried away to apparently do his bidding. Peter snarled and hurried after him, signing furiously.

_ Pay my fee, you ass! _ Peter demanded, but Ortega just gave him a contemptuous look, lower lip trembling a little as Peter advanced on him.

“Enrique!” Ortega shouted when Peter stepped into his personal space, glowering. Peter let out a surprised sound when a hand grabbed him just above his elbow, tight and almost bruising. “ _ No me toques, pendejo! Sacarlo de este barco, ahora! _ ” Peter snarled and jerked against the security guard’s grip, whirling to see a man a few inches shorter than himself but just as burly, who quickly took advantage of Peter’s unprepared state to physically drag him to the ramp and shove him down it.

Peter landed on his tool bag, knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving him just dazed enough that he wasn’t able to get back up before they’d withdrawn the ramp and started to pull away from the dock.

Scrambling to his feet, Peter glared after the departing yacht, throwing every rude sign he knew when he spotted Ortega watching him from the railing. Ortega simply shot him the bird in return and then whirled around to disappear into the body of his boat, leaving Peter furious and out of a couple hundred dollars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall just wanna give u a heads up: there's some sexual assault in this chap. Nothing graphic, just some refusing to take no for an answer until something happens to put an end to it. take care of urselves, enjoy the chapter ~~<3

“Stupid fucking—” Miguel swore under his breath as he replaced the blue wire with a red one, finally connecting the end to the circuit box and sliding back out of the access compartment to slam it shut, furious shame churning in his guts. He’d checked over the security system three times before bringing in some company lackey and it turned out the problem had been with his own damn tech, which he hadn’t even bothered to check in the first place. How humiliating.

Snatching up his tools and stuffing them back into the heavy-duty box they belonged in, Miguel left the sweltering control room for the breezy upper deck, which was much cooler at this time of night. Goosebumps broke out over his skin as he dumped his tool box into Carlos’ arms to put away before sprawling out over a lounge chair, sighing forlornly. 

Sweat cooled gradually on his skin, and he did his best not to dwell on the memory of that damn security expert. The mental image of him crouched in front of the access panel, sleeves rolled up and top few buttons of his shirt undone to expose hair and swirling black tattoos refused to leave Miguel alone though, making him squirm a little before rolling onto his back, snapping at the nearest deckhand to bring him something to drink.

Sipping his pinot noir a little faster than strictly wise, Miguel scowled over the edge of the ship, watching the ocean churn darkly as they slowly made their way out of the bay. Stupid….Miguel hadn’t even caught his name, thinking of it. Didn’t really matter, it wasn’t like he’d offered it to Miguel. Not like Miguel wanted to know his name. Or if the rest of him was just as hairy as his arms and the bit of chest Miggs had seen through the part of his shirt.

“Miggy, sweetie!”

Miguel looked up as Aaron came trotting along the deck, waving cheerfully and dressed in a tank top and white shorts, having changed clothes for the third time today.

“Aaron,” Miguel replied disinterestedly, swirling the contents of his glass absently. He let out a squawk of complaint when Aaron threw himself onto the lounge chair with Miggs, making him spill dark red liquid over the tan cover. “Aaron!”

“Oh, stuff your fussing, Mi-mi,” Aaron said, rolling his eyes at Miguel’s irritated growl. He plucked the glass out of Miguel’s hands and set it aside, crawling over Miguel to lay on top of him, pinning him to the chair.

“Aaron! Get off,” Miguel hissed, pushing at him when he didn’t move.

“Aww, but Miggyyyy, it’s been like,  _ weeks, _ ” Aaron whined, hands grabbing at Miguel’s hips, thumbs digging into the soft skin on the inside of his iliac crests until Miguel yelped. “C’mon, I’m fucking horny and you’ve been holding out on me.”

“I’m not in the mood,” Miguel snapped, smacking at Aaron’s wrists until he let go of his waist.

“Well I am,” Aaron said, tugging at the waistband of Miguel’s shorts. “Come oooonnn, I’ve been watching you run around in these things all day. You should have seen the way that techie was looking at you.”

“What?” Miguel asked, startled, and Aaron grinned.

“He kept staring at your ass,” Aaron said, grabbing Miguel’s knees and trying to slide between them. “Looked like he wanted to jump you except whenever you opened that mouth of yours to tell him off.” Miguel scowled and squirmed, trying to push Aaron off while a spark of interest started to burn in the pit of his stomach. “When you were climbing all over him to get in that compartment at your dumb little box, man I thought he was going to pull your pants down right in front of me just on the off chance he might get a taste.” Miguel blushed furiously and shoved at Aaron until he sat up, whining, “Aw, come on, Miggy, it’s a  _ compliment.  _ He wasn’t bad looking. I mean, nothing on my level, lucky you, but still. Not bad.” Miguel scowled, flushing as he recalled how he’d practically crawled into the repair guy’s lap to get into the compartment. He hadn’t been thinking, too focused on the problem with his modifications to even think about the show he must have been giving the man.

“Then he’s a fucking pervert and so are you,” Miguel snapped, trying to push Aaron all the way off until he managed to get enough space to scramble out of the chair.

“I’m not a pervert!” Aaron protested, following Miguel and managing to pin him against the rail, grinning and leaning in to start kissing at Miguel’s throat. “Come on, it’s been aaaages. You know you want to.”

“I  _ don’t _ ,” Miguel insisted. “I’m—”

“You can’t  _ still  _ be bleeding, baby, you said that like a week ago,” Aaron grunted, reaching down to slide his hand between Miguel’s legs, fingers rubbing at his crotch. “Besides, you don’t wear white when that’s actually going on.” Miguel flushed and slapped Aaron’s hand away.

“Stop  _ touching  _ me, I said  _ no! _ ” Miguel snapped.

“God, why are you being so fucking frigid,” Aaron complained, grabbing Miguel’s wrist and twisting it behind his back. “Look, you keep talking about having a fucking baby, well there’s no baby if there’s no sex, Miggy, so just bend over and relax for a bit, yeah?”

“Fuck off, Aaron, we are  _ not  _ fucking out here on the deck!” Miguel protested, squirming as Aaron pushed at him until he was bent over the rail on his stomach, legs kicking a little as Aaron held him in place.

“I told the staff to stay inside, don’t worry about it,” Aaron crooned, grabbing both of Miguel’s hands and pinning them at the small of his back. “Look, you’re already wet.” Aaron slid his fingers along the crotch of Miguel’s shorts, rubbing rough circles against him making Miguel gasp.

“Shut up!” Miguel snarled, trying to squirm out of Aaron’s grip, face burning with embarrassment.

“Oh my God, you’re hot and bothered over the  _ tech  _ guy, aren’t you?” Aaron demanded, barking a mean laugh before slipping his fingers into the side of Miggs’ shorts to drag a finger along the fork of his legs. “Fuck, you’re really—man, I knew you were into guys like that but  _ damn  _ babe. Would you stop struggling if I let you pretend I’m him?” Miguel kicked harder at that, trying to dislodge Aaron.

“ _ Odiarte _ ,” Miguel snarled, trying to buck free of his husband’s grip.

“I know,” Aaron murmured coyly in Miguel’s ear, slipping his finger into Miguel’s body and dragging his nail against the inside and making Miguel cry out. “But your Mommy picked me for you, so you’re stuck with me.”

“She wouldn’t stop me from divorcing your ass for rape,” Miguel growled, jerking his body back and forth against Aaron’s hold.

“ _ Divorce  _ me?” Aaron demanded, his grip on Miguel’s wrists going suddenly tight. “You stuck-up bitch, you can’t  _ divorce  _ me!”

“Fucking watch me!” Miguel shouted. “I’m sick of your shit, Aaron, you had to fucking see this coming!”

“Yeah,” Aaron said after a second, his grip on Miguel’s wrists going a little slack. “I did. Sorry.”

And then he grabbed Miguel’s hips and threw him over the side.

Miguel shrieked and subsequently swallowed a lot of seawater when he hit the surface, plunging into icy pitch darkness that made every muscle in his body tighten with shock. He gasped without meaning to and breathed in nothing but water, choking and clawing when he managed to get enough control over his limbs to try and swim to the surface.

Instead something heavy and hard slammed into him from the side, pain spiking through his entire body before everything went dark.


	3. Chapter 3

After being stiffed by Ortega, Peter went back to work and filed a complaint, blacklisting their yacht from being serviced by the company ever again. He doubted they’d return to Seattle after the bullshit they’d pulled, and he got little satisfaction from the result, but he’d done what he could.

Clocking out for the day, Peter drove back home, fingers tapping agitatedly at the steering wheel. He  _ really  _ could have used that money and frankly he was pissed that he didn’t have it.

Still, the sight that greeted him getting home was almost as irritating.

"Mr. Orso!”

Peter winced as he slid out of his truck, turning to see the most recent babysitter hurrying up to him, the neat plait she’d had her hair in that morning flying free of its confines and the front of her blouse stained with something Peter really hoped wasn’t urine.

_ Hello,  _ Peter said weakly, waving a hand at her when she pierced him with a furious glare.

“Hello!” she barked, hands flying up in outrage. “I quit!”

_ Why?  _ Peter asked dismayed. Even though the woman didn’t sign, she got the gist of it from his expression, her face turning sour.

“Because your children are monsters!” she snapped, gesturing furiously at her appearance. “Squirt guns! Refusing to talk like normal people!  _ Exploding sinks! _ ”

_ Exploding sinks? _ Peter blinked and then scowled, glancing past her to the apartment, where three children were peering over and between the bars of the railing of the second floor.  _ Kishan, what did you do?  _ Peter signed at one of the two tallest, who grinned, propping his elbows on the railing to start signing back.

_ Like baking soda volcano,  _ Kishan replied, grinning far too smugly for a child that was in deep trouble. Peter blew out a frustrated breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, silently cursing the day he’d introduced the younger twin to chemistry.

Pulling out his notepad so he could clearly communicate with the offended babysitter, Peter wrote,  **_Double pay, pls don’t quit._ **

“I’d need quadruple and a bonus to stay!” she snapped, waving a hand when he groaned. “I’m done! Find some other poor soul to watch your little demons!” She stormed off to her sedan, swearing when she stumbled in her small pumps. Peter groaned again and tucked away his notepad, slamming the door to his truck and trudging his way upstairs to where his three kids stood waiting.

_ How big of a mess did you make?  _ he asked resignedly, obligingly picking up the smallest of his three children. Sunny tucked his curly head into Peter’s throat as he propped the four-year-old on his hip before glowering at the twin boys standing in front of them. Kishan’s hair was sticking straight up from his head as usual, hands hidden behind his back in a way that told Peter the mess inside was pretty substantial.

Switching his gaze to Arun, Peter eyed the squirt gun for a second before shifting Sunny so he was sitting more in the crook of Peter’s elbow so he could awkwardly sign,  _ please say that is water.  _ Arun gave him a flat look in response and squirted the crotch of Peter’s pants. Peter sighed and lifted an eyebrow.

_ Water,  _ Arun replied sulkily, scuffing his sneaker against the cement. Peter sighed again at that small blessing before waving the twins ahead of himself back into the apartment.

It was, as Peter had anticipated, a disaster. On top of the general chaos that came from three children reigning supreme over the space, there was toilet paper streamed from the bathroom over the living room, some of it wet and clinging to the couch and TV. Glancing into the kitchen, Peter groaned and leaned against the counter, staring at the certifiable mountain of foam rising out of the sink and spilling out onto the floor in front of it, spatters of the foam dripping from the ceiling and cupboards in streaks.

_ You’re all grounded,  _ Peter groaned, setting Sunny on the ground as he ran one hand through his hair, wondering how long it would take him to clean it all up. From the way it looked, he was getting even less sleep tonight than he had the night before.

_ Aren’t we still grounded from last time?  _ Arun asked Kishan when he obviously thought Peter wasn’t looking.

_ Forever,  _ Peter corrected, sighing gustily.  _ You’re grounded forever. _

_ Dinner,  _ Sunny replied, tugging at Peter’s wet pants until he looked down to catch a repeat of the sign.

_ Yes,  _ Peter replied, groaning and glancing over the destroyed kitchen.  _ Pizza.  _ Arun whooped and hurried off to fetch Peter’s laptop. After spending half an hour silently squabbling over toppings, Peter placed the order and put the laptop away and started gathering up the toilet paper from the living room, Sunny trailing along after him to hold the growing bundle of tissue. 

Stuffing the paper into the already dangerously-full garbage, Peter made a mental note to take the trash out before going to bed, answering the door when the pizza delivery guy knocked on the wood.

“Hullo,” they said when Peter answered the door, and Peter waved in reply, pulling out his wallet to peel some bills free from the smallest clip and offering them, waving away the change after taking the boxes. The delivery guy thanked him, eying the wet spot on Peter’s trousers without comment as Peter shut the door. Peter looked down when a pair of small arms wrapped around his left leg, making a silly face at Sunny where he was clinging to Peter’s ankle. Sunny grinned back, displaying his missing front teeth, and making Peter drag him back into the living room where the twins were wrestling over the remote for the TV, which was currently playing some cartoon with an orange spoon-like creature riding a horse in outer space.

Peter inserted himself between his two oldest kids and set the pizza on the table, taking the opportunity to snag the remote from Kishan when both boys fell on the pizza like they’d been starved. Rolling his eyes, Peter switched the channel to the late night local news, hiding the remote in the cushions behind himself so the kids couldn’t nab it and switch back to cartoons. As the news anchor commented far too cheerfully on the local weather (drizzly and wet, as usual) and then on the Seahawks chances in their next game (not good), Peter reached down to pull Sunny into his lap and grabbed a napkin and a slice of [white alfredo sauce and onion] pizza, trading off bites with his youngest.

_ What did you do for work today?  _ Arun asked, nudging at Peter to get his attention. Peter hummed, balancing Sunny on one knee and making sure the baby had a good grip on his food so he wouldn’t drop it before detailing the first couple of repairs he’d done at a jewelry store’s surveillance system and then a home call for someone who lived uptown.

_ That’s all?  _ Kishan asked when Peter paused with a scowl, recalling his last job of the day.  _ You look really mad for such an easy day.  _ Peter sighed and then admitted to the last call.

“A  _ yacht _ ?” Arun said in surprise when Peter signed it. Peter frowned a little when Sunny didn’t react to his brother’s verbal response, putting one hand on Sunny’s curls to turn his head to the side and check his ears. Blowing out a breath, Peter looked at Kishan and pointed accusingly at Sunny’s empty ears. The twin shrugged, mouth full of cheese and peppers.

_ Sunny kept taking them out to chew on them.  _ He explained, and Peter sighed, tracing the shell of one of Sunny’s ears with one thumb. It wasn’t a big deal for Sunny to not wear his hearing aids when it was just the family, but now the babysitter’s ire came a little clearer. Sunny was all but fully deaf without the aids in, just like Peter (the old, sour twist of guilt and pain was quickly pushed down in his guts at the thought) and at four, he wasn’t all that great at reading lips to begin with.

_ But what about the yacht?  _ Arun pressed, patting Peter’s knee until he went back to explaining about Ortega and his dickish behavior.

_ Ass,  _ Kishan signed, entirely accurate but still earning a brief cuff on the back of the head from Peter for his language.  _ It’s true! _

Peter nodded in agreement, wishing he hadn’t been quite so free in his vocabulary around his kids that they’d managed to pick up swears. Not many noticed other than Peter and he really didn’t see too much harm in it, but the last thing he needed was a group of potty mouths. Or hands. Whatever.

“And—oh, looks like we have Chuck live at the wharf with some breaking news!”

_ Can’t we watch cartoons,  _ Arun asked, making a face that turned the sentence into a clear whine.

_ You should be in bed,  _ Peter rebuffed, gesturing at the hour, which was well past midnight. With the kids going back to school in a few days, he really needed to have them on a decent schedule, but this was really the only time he got to actually spend time with them, so he was really being more lenient than he should. Arun pouted but let it go, stuffing another piece of pizza in his mouth.

“Hi Ted! I’m here with Captain Bob of the coast guard boat that pulled the woman—” said a second news anchor, dressed in a big raincoat and holding a microphone too close to his face.

“Wasn’t a woman,” came the distorted voice of a man almost out of shot of the mic’s catch.

“Sorry?” Chuck the news guy stammered, making a face when the man, dressed in a coast guard jacket and hat leaned in to pull the microphone closer and speak into it.

“You were misinformed, it was a man we pulled out of the water,” Bob said, reaching up to tilt his hat out of his face and nodding somberly.

“Uh, okay, um, anyway, the coast guard rescued an unconscious man from the bay almost an hour ago after finding her—him! After finding him adrift among the waves,” Chuck said, tugging his microphone back possessively. “He’s since been revived and seems to be in surprisingly good condition for having been for a prolonged dip in the bay. He’s awake and talking and we managed to get a brief interview with him before he was taken to the hospital for further examination.” Chuck made a rolling motion with his hand and the live feed cut to a slightly wobbly shot of someone lying on their side on a gurney, wrapped up in so many blankets it was hard to tell it was a person at all save for a wild tangle of dark curls sticking out one end.

“Ma’am, can you tell us your name?” came Chuck’s voice from off-screen, microphone appearing near the person’s head. Peter frowned, noting the EMT trying to shoo away the news crew, scowl ferocious as she tried to tend to the patient.

Peter’s frown deepened when slurred Spanish came from the bundle and a hand trying to bat the microphone away.

“What were you doing in the bay?” Chuck tried, the camera bouncing a little as the cameraman moved to one side, trying to get a better shot of the sprawled figure on the gurney.

Peter nearly dumped Sunny out of his lap when he sat up suddenly, only his hand on Sunny’s stomach keeping the kid from falling into the open pizza box on the coffee table.

The man on the gurney was soaking wet, pale and trembling, clearly confused and a little frightened, eyes slitted as he peered through messy curls at the microphone in his face. He was a far cry from the slick figure Ortega had cut on the yacht earlier in the day, but Peter was positive it was him, the scowl appearing on his face unmistakable.

“Get that out of my face,” Ortega repeated in heavily-accented English, managing to get a hand on the mic and shove it away. His next words were bleeped out even in the captions, and Peter’s mouth fell open a little as he stared, ignoring the twins patting at his knees and shoulders trying to get his attention.

“We were unable to get much of an interview from him, but we’ve received word from a source at the hospital that the man has suffered a head injury, and is currently afflicted with amnesia, can’t even recall his own name.” The screen cut back to the live feed, Chuck leaning away from the coast guard captain in clear reluctance to allow him the microphone.

“And, uh, can you tell us anything about the situation, Captain?” Ted in the studio asked, a brief second passing before the message relayed through the headset to the crew on the wharf. Chuck sighed and offered the mic to the Captain, who wrapped one hand around it to keep Chuck from pulling it away again.

“Yes, we’re fairly sure that he fell off a boat or possibly the pier and was dragged out by the undertow as the tide went out,” Bob said, tugging at the brim of his hat again. “He, uh, didn’t have much on when we pulled him out of the water, so we’re pretty sure it was an accident, and that someone’s probably gonna be looking for him.”

Chuck pulled the mic free of Joe’s hold to speak into it, using his hood to protect the windscreen from the light rain starting to pick up and said into it, “So if anyone has an information or recognizes him, please call the number below or contact the hospital ASAP.”

“Papa!” Kishan said, sounding frustrated. “What’s up?” Peter blinked and then turned to look at his son before making a face and gesturing at the TV.  _ I saw,  _ Kishan signed, rolling his eyes.  _ What about it? _

_ That’s O-R-T-E-G-A.  _ Peter explained, and Arun made a choking noise as he apparently inhaled a bit of his pizza. Peter clapped him on the back as he coughed, glancing at Kishan to catch his response.

_ No way!  _ He said, mouth gaping as the news went back to Ted in the studio, a squared-off, poorly-lit photograph of Ortega in the corner of the screen. Peter rolled his eyes himself and then nodded, noticing the smear of alfredo sauce over Sunny’s face and grabbing another napkin to try and wipe it up, hindered when Sunny tried to squirm away.

_ Talk about karma,  _ Arun commented when Peter looked up and then nodded in agreement. Peter tried not to feel too pleased at Ortega’s turn for misfortune; for one it was a bit cruel, and two, it wouldn’t last long. Ortega’s rich husband would come fetch him soon enough, and Ortega would be right back to living in the lap of luxury he didn’t deserve.

After the pizza boxes were empty and Sunny was nodding off in Peter’s lap, he shut off the TV and elbowed at the twins until they climbed off the couch, grumbling. Carefully cradling Sunny and standing up, Peter shepherded his children into their room, stripping Sunny down and putting him in pajamas to lay him in his toddler bed, pulling the covers up over him as Kishan and Arun shucked their jeans for shorts and then clambered into their bunk beds. Peter pressed a kiss to Sunny’s curls and then went and tucked the twins in, rubbing his beard against Arun’s face when he tried to squirm away from it. Grinning, Peter patted his son’s knee and then got up to turn off the light, shutting the door to their room before turning to the messy apartment with a sigh.

Rolling his sleeves up above his elbows, Peter got to work, gathering up the bits of toilet paper he’d missed and fixing up the knotted roll in the bathroom, sighing before unclogging the toilet and grimacing at the sock he had to pull out of it in order to get it to go down. He mopped the floor and wiped down the counters and sink in there for good measure, cleaning a big, dried squirt of toothpaste off the mirror before deeming the room usable again and moving on. He collected Sunny’s toy trucks and a couple G.I. Joe dolls from around the living room, dumping them in the large plastic toy chest by the TV stand, tossing Arun’s spare squirt guns and a half-flat basketball in there for good measure. The coloring books under the table went back on the shelf under the TV and Peter spent a while hunting down every crayon to return them to their box, finding several in the couch and one sticking out of the ancient VCR with a crumbling cookie to keep it company. Peter left the kitchen for last, the mountain of bubbles having deflated to a sad pile of thick foam filling both sides of the sink and pouring onto the floor. Peter kicked out of his shoes and socks and rolled his pants up at the ankle a few times before wading into it so he could reach the sink itself, digging around in the foam until he found the drain, grimacing when he stuck his fingers in a couple dirty dishes beforehand. He tugged the packet Kishan had used to hold the baking soda and vinegar, the plastic a little melted. Peter admired his child’s clever mind for a brief moment, wondering how Kishan had figured out how to make plastic that would melt rapidly under hot water and how to turn it into an annoyingly-successful booby trap at just eight years old.

Shaking his head, Peter tossed the remains of the contraption in the trash, sighing when it slipped off the top of the overly-full bag to land on the carpet. Leaving it for the moment, Peter started washing the foam down the sink, using a big bowl to scoop foam off the ground and dump it down the drain. After that he mopped the kitchen and used a rag to clean the dried bits of foam off the cupboards, going up on his toes to reach the bits on the ceiling. Another rag and a towel was used to dry everything off again and Peter left the dishes for tomorrow, but shoved as much trash as he could down into the bag before grabbing a second and collecting the rest, setting both bags by the door to take out in the morning. Glancing over his still messy but no longer a complete disaster apartment, Peter called it good enough and went into his own bedroom to peel out of his wet clothes and crawl into bed in a fresh pair of boxers, groaning when he briefly caught sight of the time as he pulled out his hearing aids to put them away. An hour and a half of sleep. That was going to be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t fun.

Peter woke up to his phone vibrating furiously under his pillow, and he was almost tempted to turn it off and go back to sleep. Grumbling, he instead silenced the alarm and rolled out of bed, feeling like he’d somehow gotten a negative amount of sleep as he fumbled through getting dressed.

At five AM, the kids were still asleep, so Peter quietly grabbed a breakfast shake from the fridge and then put on his shoes to take out the trash.

On the way back from the dumpster, he noticed his next door neighbor checking his mail, and Peter jogged to catch up with him.

“Peter!” Heinz Doofenshmirtz was a little eccentric but one of the most genuinely interesting people Peter had ever met, and the smile Peter gave him as he waved in greeting was sincere. “You’re up  _ ea _ rly,” Heinz commented, and Peter nodded, sighing.

_ Do me a favor?  _ Peter asked weakly, and Heinz blinked before grinning.

“Your sitter quit on you again?” he asked, and Peter nodded glumly. “I thought so. There was  _ screaming,  _ Peter. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought they were  _ murder _ ing the poor woman.” Peter groaned and nodded again.

_ Watch them for me today? Just a few hours,  _ Peter asked, and Heinz nodded, waving a hand.  _ Some asshole yesterday cheated me out of a lot of money. Can’t pay for another sitter. _

“No  _ prob _ lem,” he said, smacking his mail against one palm in sudden excitement. “I’m working on something today I  _ know  _ Kishan’ll enjoy.” Peter fought the urge to grimace; he would have taken up Heinz’s offer to sit for the kids full time, if not for one problem. 

Heinz was a bit of an inventor, and Peter often came home to actual explosions and fires when he let Heinz and Kishan spend more than a couple hours in each other’s presence. Peter wasn’t quite sure where the wild-haired twin got his mad scientist streak from, but it was certainly exacerbated by Heinz, who loved experiments as much as any kid who knew how to blow up a sink or toilet with just a couple chemicals easily found in any household cupboard or fridge. And Heinz was an adult with access to much more than just some baking soda and vinegar. 

_ Please no explosions,  _ Peter asked, even though he knew it was futile.

“ _ Puh- _ lease, I’ll be on my best behavior,” Heinz said, rolling his eyes. “It’s basically a big water gun! No fire involved at all.” Peter wanted to put his face in his hands, mind immediately going to Arun, who hardly put his squirt guns down to eat or bathe. Still, it wasn’t like Peter had much of a choice; it was almost impossible to get a sitter on short notice, let alone at five thirty in the morning, and he couldn’t exactly afford to skip work.

_ Parking lot at least?  _ Peter asked weakly, and Heinz grinned.

“It’s too big to fit in the apartment,” he said, and Peter sighed and nodded. At least there wouldn’t be a huge mess for him to clean up today. Probably.

After bidding Heinz goodbye so Peter could get the kids up and ready to go for the day, Peter started getting breakfast ready, throwing together oatmeal and sliced apples and juice, making sure to use the ones labeled  _ red  _ for Kishan’s plate (why the boy didn’t like green food, Peter would never know, and frankly he was hoping Kishan would grow out of it; it was hard to make largely vegetarian meals that couldn’t be green) and throwing a couple extra pinches of brown sugar into Sunny’s bowl. Leaving the food on the counter, Peter peeked into the boys’ room to see them all still sound asleep, Sunny snoring a little with his face smushed into bottom right-hand corner of his bedframe. Peter rolled his eyes, wondering how the kid managed to roll around in his sleep enough to get to the point where he was upside down in his bed before. Peter then pushed the door open and flicked on the light, ready to wake his kids for the day ahead.

Arun, on the top bunk and thus closest to the light, let out a loud noise of complaint before yanking his covers up over his head. Peter grabbed the edge of them as he passed on his way to Sunny’s bed and pulled until they came clear off Arun’s bed, leaving them in a pile on the floor next to some laundry and a half-assembled chemistry set scattered by the ladder. Stepping over the glass tubes so he wouldn’t break them, Peter petted at Sunny’s back until he stirred and then sat him up, patting Sunny’s wild curls as he stretched and rubbed at his eyes, yawning. Peter lifted Sunny out of his bed and set him on the ground so he could totter out into the living room, Arun climbing down the ladder with his eyes still shut and navigating mainly by feel on his way to the bathroom. Peter paused by Kishan’s bunk to lean down and tickle the foot sticking out from under the covers, earning a yelp and jerk.

“Papa!” Kishan complained, clinging to his mattress as Peter grabbed his ankle to try and pull him out of the bed. “Nooooo…”

_ Get to see Heinz today,  _ Peter said when Kishan cracked an eye open to peer at him. Kishan sat up so fast he nearly hit his head on the bottom of Arun’s bunk, hair even more wild than usual after sleeping.

_ I’m up!  _ he signed, grinning when Peter rolled his eyes and left the room, Kishan scrambling to follow.

Sunny was in the kitchen, up on his toes and gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, trying to grab one of the bowls. Peter made a beeline for him and scooped him up, not wanting Sunny to pull the dish off the counter to the floor. Peter collected Sunny’s bowl for him and carried him over to the couch, settling him at the coffee table as Kishan knocked on the bathroom door endlessly until Arun threw it open for him.

Hoping both twins were brushing their teeth instead of vying for use of the toilet at the same time and making a mess, Peter got Sunny eating his oatmeal and apples, going back to the kids’ room to grab some clothes for Sunny, returning with a striped shirt, a pair of shorts, and a couple of socks. He also grabbed Sunny’s hearing aids from the nightstand by his bed, noting the chew marks in the ear loop and sighing.

_ Don’t chew these,  _ Peter told Sunny sternly when he crouched down to show them to the toddler. Sunny stared at the aids and then pouted, looking away to stab at his oatmeal, splattering a little over the table. Peter sighed again and slipped the aids into his youngest son’s ears, setting the clothing aside to dress him in later. No sense in dressing him just to have to change him again in a few minutes because of oatmeal dribbling from his mouth and spoon.

The twins emerged from the bathroom and Peter went inside to check their toothbrushes, glad that they’d both apparently used them. Or maybe just gotten them wet under the faucet. He wouldn’t put it past them, but at least there was no toothpaste on the mirror yet today.

After that Peter made sure all his kids were fed, he got Sunny dressed and waved for the twins to pack their bags for staying at Heinz’s apartment for most of the day. They could run back and forth between the two apartments, but he preferred them to spend most of their time there; it usually resulted in less mess for Peter to clean and thus more time to sleep.

After helping Sunny pack his bag and waiting for the twins to finish theirs, Peter sat down and flicked on the TV, catching the last bit of the early morning report.

“—being found last night in the bay, the mystery man has still not been identified,” said the morning anchor, an awkward photo of a bedraggled man in a hospital gown taking up the space on her left. “A man did come by the hospital early this morning to make an identification, but was unfortunately disappointed.” After a beat, Peter recognized Ortega in the photo, and then his husband as the newscast switched to show a man half-fleeing the hospital, trying to shield his face. Peter’s mouth fell open in shock as he suddenly realized what Aaron Ortega was doing.

_ Bastard’s just leaving him, _ Peter thought incredulously, watching the man clamber hurriedly into a limo and slam the door, cutting off the reporter’s view of him.

“The unidentified man is fully conscious and other than some minor injuries, unharmed by his incident, though we’ve been told that he’s suffered almost a complete loss of memory,” the anchor said, shuffling the papers in front of herself for a moment. “The staff at the hospital also implores anyone with any information to his identity to come forward as soon as possible.” Peter shook his head, rubbing at his tired eyes with a couple fingers. That asshole probably deserved every bad thing that came to him, though Peter wasn’t really sure what would happen to Ortega if no one stepped forward to claim him after his husband apparently seized the chance to be free of him.

Peter wondered if he should step forward; he knew the man’s name, after all. Miguel Ortega. It was at least a starting point for the hospital to get him back where he belonged, with the husband that was clearly intent on skipping out on him. Peter scowled, wondering if it was even worth it. It wasn’t like Peter could  _ prove  _ that he knew Ortega. Sure, he had the company record of servicing the yacht (and getting stood up for the fee), but other than that…

A terrible, creeping idea snaked it’s way into Peter’s mind, and for a second revulsion filled him that he’d even considered it in the first place. Sure, he couldn’t provide proof that he knew Ortega as a rich, pompous asshole that had shorted him a couple hundred bucks, but Peter knew that if Ortega without a memory was just as much of a dick as he was with one, the already busy and short-staffed hospital would be desperate to get rid of him.

And Peter could play the part of distraught husband  _ very  _ well.

_ What’s that look for?  _ Kishan asked after he caught Peter’s attention with a wave. Peter pursed his lips, part of him feeling bitter and vindictive and angry. Ortega had cost him money that could have been used to take care of his kids, to buy food, pay rent, provide a babysitter. But half-kidnapping an amnesiac and putting him to work as a nanny under the assumption that he was part of their family was  _ really  _ low.

Peter waved a hand at the TV in explanation where the news anchor was recapping the story, emphasizing on the hospital’s desperation for someone (anyone, it was implied) to come take Ortega off their hands.

_ It’s the man from the yacht yesterday. That’s his husband, _ Peter said when they briefly showed a shot of Aaron leaving the hospital again. Kishan frowned, exchanging a glance with Arun when he joined them.

_ He’s just…leaving him?  _ Kishan asked, and Peter nodded. Kishan looked horrified at the concept.  _ But why? _

_ Not everyone marries for love,  _ Peter settled on for explanation.  _ And O is not very nice. _

_ But what happens to him now? Is he just going to stay in the hospital?  _ Arun asked, and Peter shrugged, using a napkin to wipe Sunny’s face clean of oatmeal and start changing his clothes. Sunny complained and squirmed during the process, and with half Peter’s brain still mulling over that awful idea, it was taking longer than normal for him to get the kid in his day clothes.

A knock at the door sounded, and when Heinz called out a friendly greeting through it, Kishan bounced over it to throw it open and hug the neighbor.

“Hey, Einstein!” Heinz grinned, hugging Kishan back. “Ready to have some fun today?” Kishan nodded, letting go so Heinz could step into the apartment. He greeted Arun and Sunny cheerfully, earning equally happy greetings in return before pausing at the look on Peter’s face.

“Wow,  _ you  _ look like you just ate a whole  _ lem _ on,” Heinz said, laughing. “What’s got  _ your  _ undies in a bunch?” Peter shrugged.

“The guy that didn’t pay Papa yesterday’s in the hospital with amnesia,” Kishan explained, making Heinz bark a laugh.

“Wow, talk about  _ kar _ ma!” he cackled. “So that’s not a ‘long day ahead’ face, that’s a ‘I had a bad idea and I’m _ hat _ ing myself for it’ face,  _ is _ n’t it?” Peter scowled, holding Sunny by one leg so he could get his shoe on. “Hey man, I did revenge plots for a  _ living  _ once, I know the feeling. So are you gonna do it?” Peter gave Heinz an offended look. “Don’t look at me like that, the guy  _ to _ tally deserves whatever you’re planning.”

_ Don’t think I want to go to prison,  _ Peter replied snidely, Sunny escaping briefly and running to hug Heinz’s leg with one shoe on.

“What, you planning on  _ killing  _ the guy?” Heinz rolled his eyes and then made a funny face at Sunny. “Hello! Yes,  _ hell _ o, I’m sure your daddy would like to finish getting you dressed, come on!” Heinz peeled Sunny off his leg and handed him back to Peter, flopping onto his couch next to him as Peter pushed Sunny’s other foot into a hopefully-matching sneaker. The shades of gray were close enough that he was pretty sure they were the same pair.

_ Dumb idea, wouldn’t work anyway,  _ Peter said as Sunny crawled under the coffee table to attack Kishun’s feet with a squeaking growl, quickly starting a wrestling match that had Peter a little worried for something getting broken.

“Same thing for all  _ my  _ ideas,” Heinz said, waving a hand dismissively. “Tell me anyway.” Sighing, Peter reluctantly did so.

_ Lie and say he’s my spouse. Turn him into a nanny for a while until he works off the money he owes me. _

“That’s not even that bad!” Heinz laughed, smacking Peter’s shoulder. “And man, I bet he’d be glad to get out of the hospital. I mean, he’ll  _ prob _ ably be mad, but seriously, he  _ start _ ed it.” Peter winced and then shrugged. He really didn’t need Heinz to talk him into the idea, he knew it was wrong, but fuck, Peter couldn’t keep a sitter for more than a few days. If he had a live-in one….well, it’d certainly give him the opportunity to sleep some more.

Peter blew out a tired breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He was too tired for this. He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks, and he  _ knew  _ that fucked with his decision-making. The fact that he was even seriously considering this was proof enough on its own.

“Look, I’ll even help! What, worst case scenario, he gets his memory back and tries to sue. But you’ve got the fact that he stiffed you for a payment—it’s even on  _ record  _ at the security company, yeah? And you’re really kind of doing him a  _ favor _ . So you settle out-of-court like Richie McRich people like to do, he doesn’t sue you for…what would he even sue you for?” Heinz rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, lifting one leg as Sunny crawled under his feet to try and get away from Kishan and Arun’s wrestling match. “Maybe, I dunno,  _ impersonation  _ and  _ kid _ napping. Whatever. He doesn’t sue you for that, you don’t drag his ass—I mean, his butt to court for  _ robbing  _ you, he gets to get out of the hospital, you get a babysitter for a while, everyone’s happy!”

_ You’re insane,  _ Peter said, trying to ignore the part of his brain that was coming up with what he’d need to pull this idea off.

“I think the correct term would be  _ e _ vil. Or, like, formally,” Heinz teased, reaching down between his knees to lift Sunny into his lap. “You gotta get at work in like…what, two or three hours, yeah? So you run down there and pick up your  _ schnook _ ums, I take the kids and get some stuff to make it look like he lives here, we pull it off! Easy-peasy.” Peter groaned.

_ Stop trying to convince me, _ Peter said, and Heinz grinned.

“Why, is it  _ working _ ?” he leered, and Peter nodded, head in his hands. “Then it’s settled! Give me a few minutes to print off some papers. Hey, what do you wanna name him?” Peter blinked, looking up. “Well you can’t like give him his  _ actual  _ name, you’ll need a  _ temporary  _ one. Obviously his last name would be yours, but like his first name?”

Peter hesitated and then pulled out his notepad, thinking for a long minute for the most annoying nickname he could conceive that wasn’t ludicrous or unreasonable.

**_Miggs._ **


	5. Chapter 5

“Michael.”

“No.”

“Christopher.”

 _“No._ ”

“Matthew.”

“No!”

“Joshua.”

“What the— _fuck_ no!”

“...José?”

“For fuck’s sake, stop guessing!” A tray of hospital food went flying and splattered over-easy eggs and limp bacon against the far wall, causing the nurse sitting by his bedside to sigh and get up to start clearing it away.

“No one has come to claim you,” she said, scooping up the utensils in one hand and dumping them onto the tray when she righted it. “Our best hope at the moment is to try and trigger your memory.”

“With what, a list of the most common names in the fucking country?” he sneered, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away to glare at the wall.

Everything felt _wrong._ He knew things, knew _lots_ of things, but at the same time his head felt…empty. He’d reach for something, anything, and…nothing. No memories. No names, faces, places, _nothing._ He could do calculus and knew exactly how to take apart and reassemble the TV in his hospital room, knew how to speak Spanish and some French. But he couldn’t even recall something so simple as his own _name_.

And it didn’t stop at his head. His body was wrong, too. He _wasn’t_ a woman, even though the news station had tried to proclaim him one at first and the doctors had initially referred to him as one. But he _wasn’t._ He knew that, at least.

That didn’t stop his body from being wrong.

The past day had been a sort of hellish nightmare for him, waking up in a hospital surrounded by strangers, every inch of him aching like he’d been run over like a car, and not a clue as to who he was or where he came from. And from what it looked like, there wasn’t even anyone looking for him.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them to press his face into them, fighting back a tremble. Somehow, the thought that no one knew or cared to come get him was the worst part.

There was a sharp knock on the door and he looked up to see a doctor standing there, Dirk or Drake or something-with-a-D.

“And how are we feeling this morning?” Doctor D-something asked, and he scowled in response. “I have some good news! Your husband is here.”

“Husband?” he repeated, confused. The doctor stepped into the room and waved a man behind him forward.

He was very tall. Very, very tall, ducking a little automatically through the doorframe, and very good looking, with dark hair pushed back off his forehead and a decently-tailored suit framing broad shoulders and broad arms and broad….everything, honestly. He was wearing sunglasses inside and smiling a little uncertainly, dimples just visible on his cheeks and his jaw half covered by a beard.

He pulled his legs together in the bed, uncomfortable with the attraction he had to this stranger.

“I don’t know you,” he said bluntly, telling himself the hurt look on the man’s face didn’t bother him at all.

“You don’t really know anyone right now,” the doctor said gently, “Miggs.”

“ _Miggs?_ ” he repeated, horrified. “Is that what he told you my name was? _Miggs?_ ”

“It’s apparently a preferred nickname,” the doctor muttered, glancing down at a clipboard in his hands.

“Miggs,” he repeated, rolling it around, trying to make it fit, but it just…didn’t. “No. No, that’s not right.”

“Mr. Orso assures us you prefer to go by Miggs,” Doctor D-something said, flipping to the second page on his clipboard. “And all his paperwork is in order. Photocopy of your license, marriage certificate, it’s all here. Really, there’s not much more he could do to convince us.”

“Why hasn’t he said anything?” he demanded, scooting up on the bed, away from the stranger claiming to be his spouse.

“Uh…” the doctor paused awkwardly, glancing at Orso, who grimaced and slowly stepped forward. He lifted his hands and started waving and wiggling them, giving him a hopeful look after.

“What the hell was that,” he demanded flatly, and Orso’s face fell.

“He’s deaf, Mr. Orso, that was sign language,” the nurse said from where she was wiping egg off the wall.

“Why would I remember Spanish and French but not sign language?” he demanded. “He’s lying!”

Orso shook his head, reaching back to pull a notepad out of his pocket with a marker. He lifted it to show a note after a second.

**_U were still learning._ **

He narrowed his eyes at Orso, still not believing him. “What’s my full name?” Orso turned the pad back around and wrote some more.

**_Miggs James Orso._ **

“What is _Miggs_ short for?” he demanded and Orso flicked a grin and shook his head. “Why won’t you tell me!”

**_U hate ur full name._ **

“But I don’t _know_ it so how could I hate it!” he shouted, slamming both fists against the bed in frustration. “What was my name before we got married?”

 **_Miggs_ ** **_García_ ** **_._ **

“Where was I born?”

**_Here in Seattle._ **

“How long have we been married?”

**_Nine years._ **

“Nine years…nine years and I was just learning sign language? Nine _years_ and I don’t remember you?” he asked weakly, staring. Surely if he’d been married to _that_ for almost a decade he would _remember_ it, at least a little. Some spark of familiarity, some deep-seated attraction buried under a head injury. Surely, even if his damaged brain didn’t recall Orso, his _body_ would.

Throwing back the covers, he scrambled out of bed, yanking the stupid hospital gown shut over his ass and stomping up to Orso, who blinked down at him, eyes a little narrowed. He peered right back up at him, scanning his face, his eyes, staring and searching and finding…nothing. Just like always.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know you at all,” he said weakly, stepping back and shaking his head.

“Kid, you didn’t know your own reflection this morning,” the nurse snorted, climbing back to her feet with the thrown tray.

“Shut up!” he snarled, stomping his foot. “Even if my brain doesn’t recognize him, you’d think after nine years of fucking the rest of me would!” The doctor made a strangled noise but he ignored it, glaring up at Orso. Orso just stared down at him, expression hesitant and unsure, brow furrowed. He looked away, shuffling for a second before glancing back up at Orso bitterly.

“You don’t even look at me like you love me,” he mumbled, too low for the doctor or nurse to hear. Orso’s eyes widened fractionally, mouth falling open a little. “You—you haven’t tried to—to touch me or comfort me or do _anything_ I thought a husband would do. You know. Considering the circumstances.” Orso stared for a second and then the corner of his mouth twitched into a wry smile. He lifted his notepad to write something, turning it to show him after a minute.

**_U dont recognize me rn. U’d probably punch me in the mouth if I tried to touch u._ **

He thought that over for a second and realized yeah, if Orso had tried to grab him or God forbid _kiss_ him, he probably would have hit him as hard as he could.

“Yeah,” he admitted after a second. “You’re right.” Orso looked relieved, hesitantly reaching up and brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. There was no spark of recognition, no sudden rush of familiarity or memory. Just the faint tingle of his skin reacting to touch, a slight shiver running through him at the sensation.

“I don’t know you,” he whispered. “You could be some stranger off the street that saw me on the news or something, you could be _anyone,_ I don’t care if you’ve got papers, those can be faked—” His voice rose to a panicked gasp and Orso quickly withdrew his hand and stepped back shaking his head and looking distraught.

“Mr. Orso, please calm down,” the doctor said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” he snapped, smacking his hand away and backing away from them both. “Tell me something. Something no one just off the street would know!” Orso paused and then sighed, nodding before stepping closer, using one hand to trace the undersides of his own pectorals.

He went very still, staring as Orso repeated the motion, one hand going to his own flat chest, to where the top surgery scars were hidden. Orso waited and then blew out a breath and wrote a few words on his pad before showing them to him.

**_Ur transgender. Top surgery only._ **

“Oh,” he said weakly, knees feeling a bit like jelly. The news station had misgendered him at first, but not many people would realize that was why, and even less would show up with foul intentions and use that as their way of proving they knew him; it was too risky.

“Yes,” he said after a second, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re right. I am. You _do_ know me.” Orso nodded, looking relieved.

He stared down at his feet for a second. Miggs Orso. It didn’t feel right.

But then again, nothing had since he’d woken up, not even his own body.

Miggs looked up again, running his gaze over Orso and then biting his lip.

“I don’t know your name,” Miggs mumbled, looking down again. He jumped when something tapped against his shoulder, and looked up to see Orso holding up his notepad.

**_Peter._ **

“Peter,” Miggs repeated. That…fit. It didn’t feel _wrong_ , at least. “Peter.” Peter nodded, brows drawing together as Miggs said it again, rolling the word around, wondering how many times he’d said it, yelled it, swore with it, screamed it. He flushed and stopped saying it.

“Are you going to take me home, then?” Miggs asked weakly, and Peter nodded before hesitating and looking at the doctor.

“He’s good to go, just need to sign him out,” the doctor said, waving his clipboard and looking far too happy about the idea of Miggs leaving as soon as possible.

“What about the…amnesia? Is it permanent?” Miggs asked after a second.

“Oh, no, probably not,” he said. “Your memory could come back slowly over any period of time, or come back suddenly all at once. Really, we’re not quite sure what caused it in the first place. You’re a little banged up so you could have hit your head, or it could have even just been the shock of the cold water.”

“Speaking of the water…what the fuck was I doing out in the bay?” Miggs asked, turning back to Peter with narrowed eyes. Peter paused and then shrugged.

**_U have been trying to learn to swim._ **

“In a freezing ocean,” Miggs deadpanned. “By myself.” Peter shrugged again.

**_U were mad at me._ **

“We had a fight?” Miggs asked, startled. Peter shrugged _again_ and then nodded. “About what?” Peter hesitated, face closing off with pain that almost seemed too old to be something generated from a fight over household chores, but it vanished after a second when Peter showed him another note.

**_Dishes. It was dumb. I’m sorry._ **

“Me too, I guess,” Miggs said awkwardly, looking away. Mad at his spouse so he’d gone swimming in the ocean. Had he been trying to kill himself? Jesus, what a stupid idea.

Miggs looked up when Peter put his hand on his shoulder, smiling softly when Miggs bit his lip uncertainly.

“Did you bring me anything to wear?” Miggs asked, standing up and tugging at the back of his hospital gown. “I don’t want to go home with my ass on display.” Peter grimaced and shook his head, and Miggs groaned.

“The hospital can provide you some scrubs, I’ll go get a pair,” the doctor said, quickly hurrying from the room.

“They all hate me,” Miggs mumbled, and Peter turned to look at him, frowning. “Everyone here. They hate me. They don’t…understand.” Peter’s frown deepened, and Miggs blew out a frustrated breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and have everything be _wrong?_ Not just not remembering anything because you don’t recognize the bed or the people or the room or anything. Not just being unable to recall why the nurse’s perfume makes me think about apple pie and burlap, not just realizing my own face is a stranger to me. But waking up and having everything be _wrong._ My head’s fucked all to hell, but so’s my body. I’m a _man,_ I know that, but I’ve…I’ve got…” Miggs gestured awkwardly at his crotch, flushing when Peter’s eyes dropped along his body before yanking back up. “Was I…was I feeling a lot of dysphoria…before?” Peter hesitated and then shook his head slowly. Miggs hunched in on himself, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So I was…I was okay with—with this?” Miggs asked weakly, gesturing at his whole body. Peter shrugged and then nodded again. Miggs secretly wished Peter could talk, it would make getting information out of him much easier. The whole yes-or-no-with-a-shrug answers were quickly getting a little irritating when he wanted to know _everything._

“Here you are!” the doctor reappeared, holding a pair of scrub pants. Miggs quickly snatched them and yanked them on. They were several inches too short, leaving his ankles bare, but they fit around the waist well enough and his ass was covered, which was what mattered. He could put up with looking ridiculous for a little while.

“Okay,” Miggs said, pulling the drawstring for the scrubs tight and knotting it. “Take me home, please. I want the fuck out of this damn hospital.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall just a quick self promo: [I made a PnF/MML discord!](https://discord.gg/QNfdrAv) So if you like dwampyverse stuff, maybe come hang out and chat with some other people in the fandom! <3

“Ow. Ow,  _ ow _ . Ow! Ow,  _ ow _ , owwww.”

Peter watched Ortega—Miggs, he had to call him Miggs now—wince his way towards where Peter was waiting, Miggs’ bare feet arching and twisting as he tried to walk over the rough asphalt parking lot. Miggs looked ridiculous in the hospital gown and scrubs, a couple stitches on his left brow and some bandages peeking out the left sleeve of the gown. Miggs stopped walking about fifteen feet from where Peter was standing by the back end of his truck to fist his hands at his sides, glaring down at his feet and then looking up at Peter.

“You’re the one that fucking forgot to bring me shoes,” he said, glowering before holding out his hands to Peter. “Carry me.” Peter blinked, lifting his eyebrows in disbelief. Miggs’ scowl deepened when Peter didn’t move, stomping one foot and then wincing.

“It  _ hurts,  _ cabrón, come carry me the rest of the way!” Miggs snapped, lifting his foot to pull a small rock from where it was stuck to the ball of his foot. Knowing Miggs was actually a spoiled, rich asshole that had probably never had to walk barefoot on anything but plush carpet his entire life, Peter rolled his eyes and pushed himself off where he was leaning on the truck to walk to Miggs.

Miggs was rather red in the face, either from pain or anger Peter wasn’t sure, hands held out like a child for Peter to pick him up despite their similar heights. Peter hesitated for a second, not quite sure how to do this. Bridal style seemed the most obvious, but it seemed a bit…intimate.

“Peter?” Miggs stared at him uncertainly for a minute, hands lowering slightly from where they were hovering by Peter’s shoulders in anticipation of Peter picking him up. “Uh. Is everything…okay?” Peter tried to give him a reassuring smile and nodded. Taking a deep breath, Peter slid one arm around Miggs’ back and then bent to hook the other behind Miggs’ knees, scooping him up to hold him against his chest. Miggs gasped and then clung to him, cheeks darkening when he looked up, face just a few inches from Peter’s.

“Uh. Hi.” Peter blinked at Miggs, who sounded a little breathless for just mincing his way across a parking lot before being picked up. Peter smiled and tightened his grip a little in response before turning to carry Miggs to the passenger side of the truck. He squirmed a little as Peter tightened his grip under his knees, prompting Miggs to cling to his shoulders so Peter could use his left hand to open the door.

“We drive a truck?” Miggs asked as Peter managed to get the door open without dropping him and set him in the seat. Peter nodded, waving a hand at the seatbelt and shutting the door. He walked around the front of the truck to climb in the driver’s side, fastening his seatbelt after checking that Miggs had put on his.

Miggs was looking around the inside of the truck, taking in the bear keychains hanging from the rearview mirror, hesitantly reaching out to thumb through the four of them, frowning a little. Peter started up the truck and put his hand on the back of Miggs’ seat to turn and back out of the space.

“Where do we live?” Miggs asked as Peter drove them out of the lot. Peter hummed and turned his head to lift his eyebrows at Miggs, who ducked his head.

“Right. Driving,” he muttered, knotting his hands in his lap. Peter tried not to dwell on how small and uncertain Miggs was when he wasn’t puffed up by the confidence of having grown up with the world served to him on a silver platter. It made Peter feel uncomfortably guilty on top of the disquiet he was already experiencing with this whole revenge plot.

Miggs was pretty quiet on the way home, looking around the truck a little bit before staring out the window, brow furrowed and mouth pursed. Peter wondered what he was thinking about as he drove them home, pulling into the parking lot to the sight of Heinz laying underneath something that looked like it might have once been a cannon. Peter groaned and parked the truck, shutting it down and pulling his keys free.

“It’s gravel,” Miggs commented, peering out of the window with a frown. “Carry me again.” Peter struggled not to roll his eyes before sliding out of the truck without comment. Peter walked over to Heinz instead of going to help Miggs out of the truck.

Peter nudged at Heinz with his boot and the man slid out from under his project, covered in grease and his hair sticking up all over the place, a grin on his face.

“ _ Pe _ ter!” he cried, scrambling to his feet and wiping his hands on his pants. “How’d it go? You’re not in  _ jail _ , so I’m assuming  _ o _ kay.” Peter rolled his eyes and waved a hand across the lot where Miggs was throwing open the passenger door to slide out of the seat and onto the gravel.

“Oooh,” Heinz said, blinking. “He’s  _ cute. _ ” Peter rolled his eyes, elbowing him as Miggs started wincing his way towards the end of the truck. “Oh, no, I’ve got  _ Per _ ry, I mean more like he looks nice when he’s not soaking wet and con _ cussed _ .” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

_ Can you at least pretend you’ve seen him before?  _ Peter signed sourly, glancing at where Miggs was picking gravel from where it was sticking between his toes, one hand hanging on the end of the truck for balance.  _ Would really suck to have you blow this right now. _

_ “Puh _ -lease,” Heinz said, rolling his eyes.

“Peter!” Miggs called, making them both turn to look at him. He was wincing, flicking gravel off the bottom of his foot before lifting his head to glare at them. “Come carry me, I’m going to fucking cut my feet at this goddamn rate.”

“Quite the _ potty  _ mouth, eh?” Heinz muttered and Peter sighed, nodding before walking to Miggs, who put both feet on the ground with a pout and lifting his arms, clearly expecting Peter to pick him up like he had before.

Peter smirked and ducked down to wrap his arms around Miggs’ waist, hoisting him up to throw him over one shoulder.

Miggs shrieked, hands grabbing at Peter’s belt in an attempt to keep himself from getting dumped over Peter’s back as Peter straightened up. Peter just hooked his arm behind Miggs’ knees to hold him in place, turning around to walk towards the apartment with Miggs over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“What are you  _ doing!  _ Peter!” Miggs cried, feet kicking a little as Peter carried him to where Heinz was standing, grinning.

“Well  _ hi  _ there, Miggs,” Heinz said, stepping half past Peter to bend over to look at Miggs upside down. “You’re looking  _ well _ , all things considered.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Miggs spluttered, kicking some more until Peter grabbed his ankles to make him stop.

“Oh, right, _amnesia_.” Heinz said, bumping his forehead with the heel of his hand and smearing grease over his skin. “ _Heinz_ Doofenshmirtz,” Heinz said, putting his hands on his knees as he stayed bent over to talk to Miggs. “I’m your next door _neigh_ bor. You had your family _really_ worried, you know. They were up all night.”

“They?” Miggs squeaked, and Peter grinned, jostling him a little as he turned to wave his free hand at Heinz, lifting an eyebrow and managing to sign  _ kids?  _ without dropping Miggs on his face.

“Oh, upstairs,” Heinz said, straightening up again to talk to Peter. “I’m working on the  _ engine _ bits, thought it best to do it myself.” Peter nodded, hoping Heinz hadn’t left them alone for long; Arun got restless, and Kishan got…messy. And then Sunny, of course, being very small, often got into more trouble than the other two combined. Peter tightened his grip on Miggs so he wouldn’t drop him and started upstairs, bouncing a bit extra with every step to jolt Miggs. Okay, now that the revenge thing was actually happening, this wasn’t so bad. The little gasps and yelps Miggs made certainly soothed some of the anger Peter was still feeling over being stiffed a couple hundred dollars.

“Put! Me! Down!” Miggs gasped as Peter opened the front door to his apartment, looking up to see Sunny sitting on the couch with a half-empty bowl of popcorn (the rest of it seemed to be more on the floor in front of him rather than in his stomach), and Arun laying on his belly on the ground with a super-soaker water gun pointed at a few bags of plastic full of powder hanging from the ceiling fan. Kishan was nowhere to be seen and Peter frowned, reaching up to grab the ass of Miggs’ pants and haul him over his shoulder to land on his feet in front of him.

“Of all the dick moves to fucking pull—!” Miggs began hotly, drawing the attention of the two children before Peter put his hand over his mouth to stem the tide of probably mostly curse words about to flow from it. Miggs grabbed his wrist, trying to squirm free of his improvised muzzle. “I have a  _ head injury  _ Peter, and you put me upside-fuckin—” Peter made a face and covered Miggs’ mouth again, hoping that Sunny didn’t have his hearing aids in.

“Hi, Papa, hi Dad,” Arun said, turning his attention back to the bags hanging from the fan and squeezing the trigger. Liquid squirted forth and hit the bag, which promptly exploded with a loud pop and a rush of thick foam that expanded to about the size of Arun himself before falling to the carpet with a plop.

Miggs whirled around at the sound of Arun’s voice, forced to twist into Peter’s body by Peter’s hand over his mouth, ending up with his back pressed to Peter’s chest and Peter’s arm around him. Peter blinked at the back of Miggs’ head, surprised.

“Who are they?” Miggs whispered, managing to pull Peter’s hand away from his mouth, glancing over his shoulder at Peter. He looked confused and a little frightened, so Peter gave him as sympathetic of a look as he could before turning his attention to Arun, who was shooting down a second bag, which resulted in a mass of foam landing on the back of the couch. Sunny squealed and threw the bowl of popcorn when some of the foam landed on him, reaching up to fling it off his head before climbing up in his seat and turning to face Arun, scowling.

_ Stop! I’m watching the TV! _ Sunny snapped at Arun, who grinned and just sprayed Sunny in the chest with the squirt gun, laughing uproariously when Sunny smacked his hands against the couch cushion in outrage, face scrunching up in preparation to cry.

“Ah!” Peter let go of Miggs and pushed him aside to hurry to the smallest child’s side, lifting him off the couch and bouncing him in an effort to delay tears. Sunny clung to him and buried his face in Peter’s chest, hands patting against his shirt before signing  _ Arun’s mean!  _ Peter nodded in agreement, turning to look at the twin, scowling in a way that made Arun grin and then scamper away to hide behind Miggs, who looked horrified at the eight year old crouching behind him and peering out from around Miggs’ lower body.

“Don’t let Papa get me, Dad!” Arun said after glancing up at Miggs and then wrapping an arm around Miggs’ thigh to cling to him. Peter tried not to roll his eyes at Arun’s slight over-acting, hoping Miggs wouldn’t catch on to the slightly nefarious plot they were playing out. 

“They…they’re…ours?” Miggs whispered, glancing between Arun and Sunny, eyes huge and mouth hanging open in apparent terror. Peter frowned and nodded, shifting Sunny higher on his hip as Miggs stared. “Did we…adopt?” Peter pursed his mouth and shook his head. Arun and Kishan looked too similar to Peter in coloring (or so he’d been told) even if their facial features took after their estranged mother, and Sunny was the spitting image of Peter in all but his dark skin, which Peter hoped was close enough to Miggs’ that he could pass it off as the influence of their combined genes.

“I…I was…I got pregnant  _ twice? _ ” Miggs whispered, swaying slightly and looking a bit ill, both hands going to his stomach and clutching at the fabric there. Peter nodded again, stepping forward when Miggs suddenly paled.

“So I’ve got the big one ready now, Arun, did the little—oh.” Peter turned as Kishan walked out of the bathroom, knotting string around a large sandwich-baggie-sized powder bomb Peter assumed was of the same nature of the ones hanging from the ceiling fan. Peter scowled and Kishan gave a sheepish grin.

Arun giggled and shot his squirt gun from between Miggs’ knees, hitting the bag in Kishan’s hands dead-on. It popped and exploded forcefully enough to make Kishan yelp, foam bursting forth in a huge mass that nearly engulfed the wild-haired twin.

“Three,” Miggs said weakly, drawing Peter’s attention back to him. He was swaying alarmingly, and Peter took another couple of steps towards him, reaching out, but it was too late.

“Oh,” Miggs said, staring at Peter before his eyes rolled up into his head and he crumpled to the ground, making Arun scramble to avoid getting landed on.

Peter sighed, staring at Miggs’ unconscious form, setting Sunny down just to have him start clinging to Peter’s ankle and refusing to let go.

“So!”

Peter looked up when Heinz appeared in the doorway, still covered in grease and clapping his hands together and grinning. “How’s the homecoming going?” He paused, blinking at the amount of foam covering the living room and Sunny and then at Miggs crumpled on the ground.

“Ah.” Heinz said, pursing his lips for a second. “So did you decide to kill him after all?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its in the tags already but i do wanna give a heads up for dysphoria in this chapter! not too extreme but it's there so tread carefully <3

Peter gave Heinz a flat look and then knelt down to pat Miggs’ cheek, trying to rouse him. He stayed stubbornly unconscious, so Peter sighed and managed to peel Sunny off his leg to collect Miggs’ limp body off the ground, lifting him bridal style again to carry him into the bathroom.

It was a bit of a disaster, and Peter huffed at the clutter of bottles and boxes of chemicals on the counter, making a mental note to put anything that could be turned into a foam bomb under lock and key until further notice.

Peter settled Miggs in the bathtub, trying not to bump his head or anything before reaching over to turn the shower on. It came on full blast and freezing, and as soon as it hit him Miggs sat up and cried out, trying to cover his face. Peter shut the water off and snagged a towel, holding it out to Miggs, who sat in the tub trembling for a second before peeking between his fingers to glare at Peter. 

“Why did you do that?” he demanded, snatching the towels and pressing his face into it.

_ You fainted,  _ Peter signed, but Miggs just gave him a blank look over the towel, so Peter rolled his eyes and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and lolled his head back with an exaggerated sigh. He glanced at Miggs to see him scowling.

“I did  _ not  _ faint,” he snapped, rubbing his face with the towel again. “I just…passed out. Because…the head injury. That’s all.” Peter huffed a laugh and Miggs lifted his head to glare at him.

There was the sound of a small hand patting the bathroom door, so Peter turned to see Sunny peering around the edge, eyes wide and some foam still stuck in his curls. Peter lifted his arm, inviting him inside, and Sunny glanced at Miggs sitting in the tub for a minute before sliding inside and half-hiding behind Peter, peeking around him at the man in the bathtub.

“I…We…have kids,” Miggs said weakly after a second. “Three of them.” Peter nodded, glancing between Miggs and Sunny. He was suddenly remembering that this little plot to get revenge on Miguel Ortega brought the man in direct contact with his children, and was uncertain of what that meant. If Miggs did anything to hurt his kids…well. Aaron Ortega wouldn’t have to worry about his amnesiac husband ever showing up.

Miggs put his hands over his face, letting out a long, shaky breath.

“I…I didn’t think I’d have  _ kids, _ ” he whispered. “I—I—I’m a  _ guy,  _ Peter, I don’t—guys don’t get pregnant, they don’t—” His voice slurred with accent the more upset he got, some tumbling Spanish escaping him before Peter reached out to grab his shoulder, frowning. Miggs took a deep breath, one hand grabbing Peter’s fingers and clinging to him, staring at the wall in front of him.

“Was I…Did…whose idea was it?” Miggs breathed, trembling noticeably under Peter’s hand. “For me to…to carry them.” Peter pointed at Miggs, who stared at him. “It was my idea,” he said slowly, and Peter nodded. Blowing out a long, slow breath, Miggs nodded after a second, clutching the towel to his chest.

“I…I want to get dressed. I want to feel like myself again,” he said before pausing with a frown. “Whatever that feels like.” Peter nodded, getting up to help Miggs to his feet. Sunny hurried out of the bathroom and Miggs frowned, glancing at Peter.

“He’s acting like he’s never seen me before,” he muttered, and Peter winced, helping Miggs out of the tub before reaching for his notepad.

**_Ur acting different too. He’s not used to it._** Peter lied, and Miggs frowned before nodding and  following Peter out of the bathroom and into Peter’s bedroom.

“What do I usually act like?” he asked, dropping the towel in the laundry basket by the closet and dripping water all over the carpet. Peter paused and then shrugged. Miggs scowled at him. “Very helpful.” Miggs opened the closet and scowled at the contents, standing there for a long minute before awkwardly muttering, “Which clothes are mine?”

Peter walked up behind him to glance over the closet, which was definitely fuller than he’d left it this morning. His own clothes had been shoved on the bar to one side, unfamiliar shirts and pants hanging on the right side. Peter waved his hand at those, and Miggs started flicking through them, frowning.

“None of this looks like something I would wear,” he mumbled under his breath, peering at a floral-print button-up that looked like something that screamed  _ tourist.  _ Peter awkwardly shuffled away as Miggs started picking through the pants, peering at the sizes and frowning.

“Where are my underwear?” Miggs asked suddenly, pulling open the top drawer of the dresser and peering inside. Peter scrambled for an explanation, wondering if Heinz had forgotten to buy the man some fucking boxers. Frowning, Miggs pawed through the drawer, eventually looking up to stare at Peter. “Please tell me I did  _ not  _ go commando full-time.” He looked horrified at the concept, and Peter shrugged, tugging out his notepad again.

**_Might just b in the laundry._ **

Miggs frowned some more before glancing at the laundry basket and making a face. With a sigh, he tugged the hospital gown off over his head and threw it aside. Peter froze, staring.

He’d been able to see a strip of Miggs’ back through the split of the gown, but not much, and looking at him now, Peter wondered if Aaron had run Miggs over with the damn yacht.

Miggs’ back was a mottled mess of bruises that it certainly hadn’t been the last time Peter had seen it, and there were scrapes running up his left side, bandages wrapped around his ribs and then his left shoulder, taped in place here and there.

Peter swallowed down a strangled noise when Miggs dropped his scrubs to start pulling on the jeans he’d picked out. His ass was just as nice as Peter remembered it, even with bruises on his left hip and thigh flushing the skin dark and a little swollen. Peter quickly turned away so he wouldn’t keep ogling the man, shame churning a little in his stomach. Sure, he was tricking Miggs into thinking they were married, but Peter had no intention of taking advantage of the man physically. That was far lower than Peter was ever willing to go with this whole damn scheme.

“I’m going to get a fucking yeast infection,” Miggs said, prompting Peter to look up, catching Miggs grimacing and tugging at the crotch of his jeans. They were a little big around his hips but fit well enough otherwise, maybe just a bit too short, but not obnoxiously so like the scrubs had been. He pulled on a plain black t-shirt that looked like it might have had a design on it at one point that had washed off over time. It was a little small, riding a couple inches above the waistband of his jeans. Miggs frowned and tugged at it some, looking up when someone knocked on the half-shut bedroom door before pushing it open.

_ Everything okay?  _ Kishan asked, glancing around with Arun peering over his shoulder and Sunny clinging to his left leg.

_ Fine. You guys?  _ Peter replied, glancing at Miggs, who was staring at the kids with an unreadable look on his face.

_ We’re fine,  _ Arun signed, staring at Miggs over Kishan’s shoulder.  _ Does he know? Is he gonna leave? _

_ No. As long as we don’t blow it, _ Peter sighed, wondering how he’d raised kids that were so okay with him bringing home and tricking a stranger like this.

“What are you saying?” Miggs asked after a minute, glancing between Peter and Kishan, scowling. “I don’t understand anything.”

“Just asking Papa if you’re alright,” Kishan said after a second, wrapping one hand around the back of Sunny’s head when he buried his face in Kishan’s stomach.

“I have amnesia and no underwear, I’m the furthest thing from alright,” Miggs growled and Peter put a hand over his face with a groan. “What?”

_ You can’t say stuff like that, they’re eight and four!  _ Peter complained, knowing Miggs wouldn’t understand.

“Papa says you can’t say that because we’re little,” Arun translated, giggling. Miggs scowled, turning away to shove the dresser shut.

“I’ll say whatever the hell I want,” he muttered under his breath, continuing on in Spanish and shooting Peter a glare. Peter sighed and waved until he got Miggs’ attention, gesturing at the kids and hoping he would get the gist from Peter’s facial expression. He didn’t, staring blankly at him until Peter sighed and turned to the kids.

_ Introduce yourselves, I guess, _ Peter signed and Kishan nodded, leaning down to tug at Sunny until he let go, pushing him into the room. Sunny chose to run straight to Peter when Kishan kept pushing him, throwing his arms around and hiding his face against Peter’s leg. Peter sighed and petted at Sunny’s curls, wondering if this was really a good idea in any amount.

“I’m Kishan, the oldest,” Kishan said, wheezing when Arun elbowed him in the side.

“No,  _ I’m  _ the oldest! I’m Arun,” he said, yelping when Kishan stepped on his foot.

“Twins?” Miggs asked after a second, glancing between them.

“Yeah,” they answered simultaneously, still subtly pushing and poking at each other even when Peter gave them a warning glance.

“And that’s…?” Miggs glanced at Sunny, who peeked at him before hiding again.

“Sunny,” Kishan said after an awkward pause. “He doesn’t talk much.”

“How old…?” Miggs hesitated, putting a hand to his stomach. Peter narrowed his eyes, watching for signs that he was about to faint again.

“Eight,” the twins said, and Peter pointed at Sunny before holding up four fingers.

“A little far apart,” Miggs mumbled, and Peter shrugged, waving at the twins until they left the room. Leaning down to scoop up Sunny, Peter walked closer to Miggs, patting Sunny’s back when he clung to Peter and buried his face in Peter’s neck.

“I…it’s like…He’s acting like he doesn’t even know me,” Miggs whispered, staring and reaching out hesitantly before pulling back, biting his lip. Peter watched him carefully. Miggs seemed a completely different person from the one on the ship, and Peter wondered if it was just the loss of his memory, or something else. Maybe the head injury had scrambled his brains more than just giving him amnesia.

Peter jostled Sunny until he looked up.

_ Say hi?  _ Peter signed one handed, tilting his head towards Miggs. Sunny frowned and turned to look at Miggs, who still looked uncertain.

“Hello,” Miggs said awkwardly, mouth stretching into an attempt at a smile, looking nervous. Sunny curled his fingers in a slow wave after a second, and Miggs nearly melted in front of Peter’s eyes, relief making him sag a little. “Does he…d’you…recognize me?” Miggs asked, and Sunny glanced up at Peter, who waved at Miggs before smiling. Sunny looked back at Miggs and nodded, sticking a few of his fingers into his mouth before resting his head on Peter’s shoulder.

“Can I—” Miggs froze when Peter’s phone started to ring, and Peter went still as well, turning after a second to check the alarm clock by his bed. Peter quickly set down Sunny, who half-ran out of the room, hands flapping as he signed at Kishan and Arun, who’d probably been eavesdropping.

Peter pulled out his phone and groaned as he realized his alarm to get to work on time was going off, meaning he had to be leaving  _ now  _ or be late.

Yanking out his notepad, Peter scribbled a quick note before showing it to Miggs.

**_I gtg 2 work. Heinz will help u w anything u need 2day. B back abt 8 PM._ **

“What?” Miggs squeaked. “You’re  _ leaving _ ?” Peter nodded, shoving his notepad back into his pocket and grabbing his tool bag from where it sat on top of the dresser and hurrying out of the room.

“Ah, Peter, everything okay?” Heinz was in the kitchen, using copious amounts of paper towels to try and clean the grease clinging to him, Kishan and Arun giggling and squirting him with tiny pistols filled with soap and water, going by the suds.

Peter nodded, quickly adding,  _ Help M settle in today, please. Also, underwear? Seriously? _

“Oh, yeah,” Heinz said, realization dawning. “I’ll get some, don’t  _ wor _ ry.” Peter nodded, glancing over his shoulder as Miggs emerged from the bedroom, looking a little panicked. Peter dropped kisses and firm commands to  _ behave today  _ on each of his kids, pausing at the door to give Heinz a friendly wave.

He jumped when Miggs grabbed his arm, clinging to him.

“Please don’t go,” Miggs whispered after a second, making Peter stare at him. “Don’t leave me alone.” Peter rolled his eyes and pulled out his notepad again to tap at the last line.  **_B back abt 8 PM._ ** Miggs’ face fell and he slowly let go and nodded.

“Have a good day or whatever,” he mumbled and Peter sent a glance up towards the heavens in a silent plea for strength. He never should have let Heinz talk him into this. 


	8. Chapter 8

Miggs felt a little sick. After Peter left, he was alone with their… _ children. _

Miggs couldn’t believe he  _ had  _ children. That he’d gotten pregnant, carried them, birthed them.

He shuddered. It didn’t sound like something he would do. At least, he didn’t think it did? It wasn’t something most men did, at any rate. He was just glad his husband was apparently supportive of him transitioning; there wasn’t a single dress in the entire apartment, and all the clothes that he was pretty sure were his were definitely masculine, if a little… _ questionable _ …in taste. He certainly didn’t think he was the type to own a Beavis and Butthead t-shirt, but there it was, hanging in the closet.

“You o _ kay _ in there, Miggs?”

He looked up to see that odd-looking neighbor peeking into the bedroom, blue eyes big over his long nose.

“Uh…” Miggs stalled, struggling to recall his name. Something foreign.

“Heinz,” the neighbor said, grinning. “Don’t  _ wor _ ry about it, you’ve  _ al _ ways been bad with names.”

“Have I?” Miggs asked, looking down with a scowl. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in on you,” Heinz said, pushing open the door a little more and rubbing at the back of his neck. “You’ve sorta been  _ in  _ here for an  _ hour _ .”

“Yeah,” Miggs said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“Good, that’s good,” Heinz said, nodding. “You know, the kids are  _ wor _ ried about you.”

“The kids,” Miggs said slowly, tugging at the edge of his too-small t-shirt. “How…uh, how long have we been neighbors?”

“Oh, uh, well  _ I _ moved up here just after  _ Sunny  _ was born or so,” Heinz said, rubbing at his chin.

“So after I’d had him,” Miggs mumbled, sighing when Heinz nodded. He’d have to ask Peter then.

“Why don’t you come out? It’s almost lunchtime and I’ve gotta get back to  _ work _ ,” Heinz said, grinning. “You know how the kids get with no one around—well, actually I guess you  _ don’t  _ know.” Heinz laughed, and Miggs glared at him, irritated that the man would make light of his lack of memory.

“Fine,” Miggs mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping out of the bedroom after Heinz.

“Well, kids, I’ll see you _ la _ ter!” Heinz said, ruffling one of the twins’ hair and hugging the other when he grabbed onto Heinz’s side. The littlest one kept waving his hands around in sign language, grinning a front-toothless grin when Heinz winked at him.

“Oh yeah, I’ll check on you guys later, don’t  _ worry _ ,” Heinz said, bending down to press a kiss to the shortest child’s forehead and pat his cheek. “Be good for your  _ dad  _ now, he’s had a long day al _ ready _ .” The twins grinned and nodded, and then Heinz was on his way out the door, leaving Miggs completely alone with his three kids.

They stared at him for a long minute, and he stared back. 

They didn’t look anything like him. He could see Peter plain as day in all their faces, but none of them had Miggs’ eyes or hair or even his skin tone, really. Sunny was definitely darker in color than the twins, but it was a different tone than Miggs’ own dark skin. And not a single one of them had his freckles.

The littlest started signing something at Miggs, something with tapping his fingers against his mouth and then holding his arms in an L shape for a second. Miggs stared when he repeated the sign a couple times, a scowl appearing on his little face when Miggs didn’t respond.

“What’s he saying?” Miggs mumbled, glancing at the twins, who gave him a blank look. He sighed, rubbing at his forehead when the little one—Sunny—waved his hands around in apparent frustration before repeating the first sign and then pointing at the kitchen. Miggs stared some more before it finally clicked.

“Oh! Lunchtime! Lunch? Is that what you’re saying?” Miggs demanded, waving his hands between Sunny and the kitchen. Sunny blinked and then nodded, patting his stomach with both hands.

“Okay, uh, food,” Miggs said, wondering what the hell kids ate. They ate just like adults, right? He could probably…microwave some chicken nuggets or something. Going into the kitchen, Miggs pulled open a random cupboard. It was half full of dishes, so he moved onto the next. It took three more guesses to find the food, and he stared blankly at boxes of pasta and canned goods. He decided the freezer was his best bet instead, so abandoning the cupboards he went to the fridge and pulled it open. The freezer held ice trays and big ziplocks labeled in blocky black marker that looked like they were possibly pre-made meals. Miggs had no idea how to make them though, and there were no instructions written on the ziplocks. After staring at one labeled  _ Mushroom Barley Stew  _ for a few minutes, Miggs pushed it back into the freezer and went with the fridge instead. There was milk and eggs and cheese, jam and syrup, and a big drawer nearly brimming over with vegetables and cold fruits.

“Uh…” Miggs glanced over the top of the fridge door to see Sunny standing in the entry to the kitchen watching him, the twins nowhere to be seen. “What do we usually have for lunch?” Sunny stuck his fingers in his mouth and didn’t reply, blinking big pale blue eyes up at Miggs. 

“Okayyy…” Miggs said after a second, looking up and wondering where the twins had gone.

He was answered a moment later by the sound of running water, and he frowned in the direction of the bathroom for a few seconds before shrugging and turning back to the fridge.

“Okay, lunch,” he muttered, glancing over what was in the fridge and wondering what the hell to make. There was plenty in there, but he had no idea how to put anything together into an actual meal. “Sandwiches?” Miggs said after a minute, checking the cupboard and finding a jar of crunchy peanut butter to go with the jam in the fridge.

“Can you eat a sandwich?” Miggs asked, frowning at Sunny, who stared and then nodded, a giggle slipping out when Miggs looked relieved. “Okay, sandwiches, I can do sandwiches.” Miggs set the jam and peanut butter on the counter, belatedly realizing he needed bread.

“Bread. Where’s the…?” Miggs looked around, frowning and starting to dig through the cupboards and fridge again.

There was a loud squeal of delight from the bathroom, closely followed by a loud splash that had Miggs jerking in surprise and smacking his head against the lip of the fridge.

“Shit!” Miggs yelped, grabbing the back of his head and squeezing his eyes shut with pain. “What the hell—I mean, what the heck was that?” He slammed the fridge shut and turned to see the twins scrambling out of the bathroom, both soaked to the waist and a wall of bubbles seeping out of the door behind them.

“Oh…my…” Miggs gasped as he watched suds and foam pour from the bathroom and start soaking into the carpet. “What is that?” Miggs gasped, whirling on the twins, who grinned.

“Just a bottle of dish soap,” the one with the hair sticking up all over the place said.

“But…why?” Miggs demanded, watching the bubbles start to slump forward and pop and soak into the carpet, the twins watching it with poorly-concealed glee.

“Because it’s fun,” one said, shrugging.

“Okay,” Miggs said weakly, wondering if this was a daily occurrence. With the foam drying to crust on the couch and carpet and in Sunny’s hair and now the suds soaking the floor as well, he really hoped not. Resolving to deal with the bubbles after feeding the kids, Miggs turned back to the kitchen to find bread. Eventually he found half a loaf in a breadbox tucked between a cookie jar and the toaster, and he stared at the unsliced bread for a long minute before digging around in search of a knife.

Sawing through the bread was surprisingly messy, but after lots of crumbs getting…everywhere, Miggs ended up with eight slices of slightly mangled bread that he was fairly certain would work for sandwiches.

“Dad, I’m  _ hungry _ !” A cold line of water streaked up Miggs’ spine and he yelped, flinging jam up onto the ceiling on accident, where it hit with a splat and stuck there. Miggs stared at it for a second before whirling around to see one of the twins leaning over the bar with a water gun in his hands.

“Don’t do that,” Miggs snapped, pointing at the eight year old firmly. He got another squirt of water in his face in retaliation and he flinched at the cold water hitting his mouth and eyes. He squeezed them shut automatically and grabbed the counter behind himself with both hands, mouth pressing into a thin line and lungs locking in his chest.

The shower had been a sudden shock and then it’d been gone and he’d been soaked, but Peter had grounded him, helping him out of the tub and moving him along before he could dwell on the sensation.

The cold water hitting him in the face hit him and  _ stayed,  _ and all of a sudden he couldn’t breathe, he felt like he was being crushed, the bruises on his side and ribs throbbing as his muscles tensed and trembled.

“Dad?”

Miggs tried to open his eyes, to take a breath, but not a single piece of his body would move or obey his mind, which flooded with panic.

A tiny hand tugged hard on his pant leg, startling him, and Miggs’ eyes flew open to stare down at his feet. Sunny was frowning up at him, repeating his sign for  _ lunch  _ demandingly.

“Right,” Miggs said weakly, nodding as he took a shaky breath. “Lunch. You,” he waved a hand at the twin leaning over the counter with the water gun, “spray me again and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. Go…watch TV or something.” The twin pursed his lips and then sighed, slumping off the counter and to the couch, flopping down on his back before loosing a big spray of water from his gun to hit the wall and ceiling. Miggs looked around but didn’t see the other twin. Hoping another foam or soap disaster wasn’t on its way, Miggs sighed and turned back to the sandwich bread. Sunny wrapped one arm around Miggs’ leg, and he scowled down at the child as he dragged him around the kitchen, fetching a butter knife and then a spoon to try and spread jam and peanut butter over the bread slices. 

“You’d think I’d never done this before in my life,” Miggs mumbled, using the back of the spoon to mush peanut butter over the bread, frowning as it caught and tore the slice. But he moved on, eventually ending up with four sorry-looking sandwiches. He stared at them for a long minute before sighing and looking down to where Sunny was wrapped around his ankle. He took the least battered sandwich and managed to kneel down to hand it to Sunny.

Miggs paused when he was on eye level with the littlest boy, frowning as Sunny took the sandwich from him and started shoving it in his mouth. Miggs let him have it, cupping Sunny’s head hesitantly to turn it to one side. Sunny let him, sucking a glob of jam from between the slightly squished slices of bread and getting sticky sandwich filling all over his mouth and chin.

In Sunny’s ears were pink hearing aids, the ear hooks looking like they’d been nibbled on. Was Peter’s loss of hearing genetic? But the twins didn’t have aids. Miggs sighed and patted Sunny’s shoulder before climbing back to his feet, looking over the apartment to see the squirt-gun-twin still laying on the couch, shooting upside down at the wall where the other twin was flinging balls of wet toilet paper to be shot off the wall.

“Stop, oh my God,” Miggs said, staring in horror. “You’re making a huge mess!” Both twins turned to look at him and shrugged, a glob of wet toilet paper sliding down the wall before hitting the ground with a plop. Miggs groaned and grabbed the most mangled sandwich for himself, frowning at the sticky mess on Sunny’s hands and face as the twins dropped their toilet paper and the water gun to hurry into the kitchen.

“You’re bad at food,” one of them observed, and Miggs scowled.

“What do you know, you’re eight,” he muttered, grimacing at the leaking jam from his own sandwich into the palm of his hand. After finishing his sandwich, Miggs looked down at Sunny, who was now flecked with bits of dried foam and had sticky hands and peanut butter and jam all over his face. He probably needed a bath. Miggs glanced towards the bathroom where the doorway still had bubbles up to Miggs’ knees.

“Do I want to know what you did in there,” Miggs asked dully, using the sink to wash his own hands, grimacing at the sticky jam clinging to his fingers.

“Probably not,” said the twin who went to go pick up the squirt gun again, checking how full it was. Miggs groaned, wondering if it was always like this.

“Okay, can you like. Sit on the couch and not…move,” Miggs flapped his hands at the sofa, eventually bending down to pick Sunny up off the floor when none of them moved. Immediately upon lifting Sunny under his arms, Miggs had the overwhelming, horrific realization that he had no idea how to hold him. He got him lifted and held him out at arm’s length, and after that….no idea.

“Uh.” Miggs stared at Sunny, who stared back at him, legs and arms hanging as Miggs just held him. After a minute, Miggs awkwardly sort of shuffled out of the kitchen, trying not to jostle Sunny before setting him on the couch. Miggs held out his hands uncertainly. “Stay,” he said firmly, giving Sunny a stern look. Sunny imitated the look, scowling up at Miggs in a slightly startling impression of him.

“You—uh. Twin,” Miggs said, pointing at the water-gun-holding-child and then at the seat to the left of Sunny. “Sit.”

“Arun, Dad,” he said, sighing.

“Arun, sit,” Miggs ordered, resisting the urge to stomp his foot.

“I’m not a  _ dog, _ ” Arun muttered, fingering his water gun thoughtfully.

“If you spray me again, I swear to God,” Miggs said, eying Arun’s water gun suspiciously. Arun seemed to consider it before throwing himself down on the couch with a dramatic sigh, cradling his squirt gun to his chest. With two of three children on the couch, Miggs looked around for the last, frowning when he noticed the bubbles to the bathroom had been clearly plowed through by someone going inside.

With a sigh, Miggs walked to the bathroom, grimacing at the wet squish of the carpet under his feet the closer he got to the door. Grabbing the thighs of his jeans, Miggs tried to pull them up as high as he could before wading into the bubbles, struggling not to slip once he made it onto the linoleum of the bathroom floor.

“Kishan,” Miggs said, looking around and frowning. “Are you in here?”

“Yeah,” came a voice from the bathtub. Miggs looked over the room, which was half full of bubbles. There was a mostly-empty bottle of soap on the counter, and the source seemed to be the shower. Miggs waded to the toilet and peered past it down into the tub. Kishan was kneeling in the tub, pulling a plug from the drain and letting water go down.

“Why?” Miggs asked weakly, gesturing at the bubbles flooding the room. Kishan paused, looking up at Miggs with a frown before sitting back on his heels in his soaked jeans and socks with a shrug.

“I wanted to see what’d happen,” he said, getting to his feet and sliding a little in the wet tub. Miggs reached out automatically to steady him, really not wanting the first day he could remember also being the day one of his kids cracked their head open in the bathroom. Kishan grabbed his arm and then clung when Miggs tried to let go, and Miggs paused awkwardly.

“I, uh. Do you want me to carry you?” Miggs asked, glancing at the wet….everything. Kishan didn’t say anything, just held his arms out after a second. Miggs leaned forward, doing his best to keep his balance and wrapped his arms around Kishan’s torso, lifting him out of the tub. Kishan wrapped his arms around Miggs’ shoulders and his legs around Miggs’ waist, clinging to him like a monkey. Miggs held Kishan tight and carefully turned around and started slowly sliding his way out of the bathroom to the stability of the wet carpet.

“Okay,” Miggs said, breathing a little hard as his ribs started to ache from Kishan clutching him. He made it to the carpet and set him down, clutching at his side with a wheeze. “Okay,” he repeated. “Uh. Go put on…dry pants. And then go sit on the couch with your brothers. Please.” Kishan nodded after a second and went into the kids’ room to change.

Miggs turned back to the bubbles flooding the bathroom and sighed.

The most logical solution seemed to get towels, so Miggs found the linen closet and ended up using every towel to try and clean up the mess, layering them over the soaking carpet in an attempt to dry it out and throwing them all over the bathroom. It wasn’t exactly  _ clean,  _ but it was better, so Miggs called it good and left the bathroom to find the kids hadn’t stayed on the couch as ordered.

Kishan was mixing powder into vials of water, little puffs of smoke coming from a couple of the tubes in a rack on the coffee table. Next to him Sunny had a large coloring book open with a box of crayons scattered over the carpet, while Arun was somehow managing to take up the whole couch, sprawled over the cushions with a big bowl of popcorn on his stomach as the TV played a movie.

“Well at least you’re not burning the place down or flooding it,” Miggs sighed, grimacing down at his wet clothing. Kishan had changed as ordered, and it was the first time Miggs really stopped to look at what the kids were wearing. He frowned as he took in the just plain  _ weird  _ combination of colors and patterns on their shirts and pants, none of it even remotely close to matching in any sense. He almost wanted to mention it, but for all he knew, the kids were dressed to the height of fashion.

Miggs sighed and went back into Peter’s—his and Peter’s—bedroom, shutting the door most of the way before peeling out of the wet jeans. Digging around in the dresser failed to produce any underwear, but he did find a pair of big comfy-looking pajama pants. When he pulled them on they obviously weren’t his; they fit in length well enough, but the waist was definitely too big. Luckily yanking the drawstring and knotting it pulled them tight enough to wear.

He left the bedroom to find the twins having a popcorn and squirt gun battle, Sunny hiding under the coffee table with his coloring book as Kishan threw handfuls of popcorn over it to where Arun was hiding behind the couch, super soaker water gun leaned over the cushions like a sniper. Water was splashed over the wall behind the TV and the carpet in dark streaks, and popcorn was scattered everywhere.

“I would ask what you’re doing, but I feel like it’d be pointless,” Miggs groaned, glancing over the new mess, not to mention the leftover mess from lunch. The jelly on the ceiling didn’t seem to be there anymore, but Miggs had the feeling that was because it’d fallen to the floor rather than been cleaned up.

Sunny waved at Miggs from under the table, signing something while pointing back and forth between his brothers.

“What did he say?” Miggs asked, crouching down to try and see Sunny’s signs better and attempt to decipher them. He was helplessly lost though; the only sign he even managed to catch seemed to be a lot of Sunny scratching his own chest.

A squirt of water flew past Miggs’ face and then some popcorn hit him in the head, sticking in his hair, and Miggs quickly ducked out of the line of fire, ending up sitting on the floor with a couch cushion to block any projectiles coming his way. After a little bit Sunny crawled out from under the coffee table to sit with him, showing Miggs the colored pages of his book.

After a couple hours, Heinz walked back in like he owned the place, holding a basket of laundry.

“Oh, hi!” he chirped, blinking at the warzone the living room had become and Miggs sitting in the corner with some pillows to shield himself and Sunny. “Uh. Everything  _ o _ kay?”

“Fine,” Miggs grumbled, peeking over the edge of the pillows at the neighbor. “What’s that?”

“What’s this?” Heinz said, looking down at the laundry basket in his arms. “Oh,  _ this _ ! Uh. Peter  _ texted  _ me. Yeah! And asked me to pick up the  _ laundry  _ you left in the dryer before you went for your…swim. Since,  _ y’know _ , you don’t remember where the laundry room  _ is  _ and all.” After a second Miggs nodded, ducking when a spray from Arun’s squirt gun went wide, splashing against the wall over his head.

Heinz dropped the laundry basket on the counter, frowning at the floor of the kitchen for a minute before lifting his head with an awkward smile. 

“You doing okay?” he asked, nudging at a wad of dried toilet paper sticking to the carpet with the toe of his shoe.

“Was it like this every day…before?” Miggs asked after a minute, scowling when Kishan used a spoon to launch multiple popcorn pieces in an attempt to compete with Arun’s squirt guns.

“Well… _ yeah _ ,” Heinz said, ducking out of the way and laughing a little. “Never bothered you then.”

“Is that so,” Miggs said, adjusting the pillows of his miniature fort as the twins ignored the adults in favor of continuing their battle. Heinz hummed, rubbing his chin and looking over the disaster of an apartment. Miggs wondered if he was always this bad at being a parent, or if he’d just forgotten how to be a good one. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love and hugs to doc and maggie for betaing and prereading <3

Peter was tired. He was so tired, he was starting to wonder if he was dead and just missed the resting part of death. Maybe he was in hell. That was possible.

His home was certainly on fire, that sort of pointed in the direction of hell. 

It wasn’t immediately apparent, but Heinz was sprinting along the balcony with the fire extinguisher, so that was a pretty big clue something was wrong. Peter parked and hurried up the stairs to the apartment as fast as his very tired legs would carry him.

His kitchen was on fire. Specifically the stove, which looked like it had a pot on it, but Peter couldn’t quite be sure.

_ What is going on?  _ Peter demanded, slamming a hand against the side of the fridge to get anyone’s attention. Heinz was in the kitchen with the fire extinguisher aimed at the stove, swearing as he tried to figure out how to use it. The twins were hiding behind the opposite counter, just fingers and eyes visible above the bar, while Sunny and Miggs were nowhere to be seen.

_ M-I-G-G-S can’t cook,  _ Arun signed above the bar, pointing to where Heinz was spraying down the stove with the extinguisher. Peter stared, dragging one hand down his face in disbelief.

“Hiii, Peter!” Heinz called after the fire was out, setting the extinguisher aside and wiping some of the blowback foam from his hands onto his shirt and pants. Peter waved weakly, glancing over the apartment and struggling not to melt to the floor in a puddle of exhaustion. The place was a mess, the walls and floor streaked in water and toilet paper and popcorn and God knows what else.

Staring around his apartment, Peter wondered if there was a universal undo button to go back to before he’d brought Miggs home and just…not do that.

_ What happened?  _ Peter asked weakly before holding up a hand to stop anyone from actually answering.  _ Never mind. Don’t want to know. Where is Sunny?  _ Usually the four-year-old was all over Peter the instant he walked in the door, current emergencies in progress or not. The lack of Sunny clinging to his ankle made Peter feel a little naked.

_ With M-I-G-G-S.  _ Kishan turned to point at the couch, which Peter could see a lump of at the end that he hadn’t realized was a person until he got closer. Walking over there now that his kitchen was no longer on fire, Peter found Miggs curled up on the end of the couch, Sunny in his lap and cradled against his chest, Miggs’ left hand tucked in between them. Peter frowned and reached down to grab Miggs’ shoulder, getting his attention. Miggs jumped a little at the touch before looking up, eyes big and full of tears. Peter’s frown got deeper, and he glanced down at Sunny, who looked pretty content, all things considered.

_ What happened?  _ Peter asked again, frowning when Miggs just blinked at him, clearly not understanding. Sunny patted Miggs’ wrist before lifting his head to sign at Peter, pouting a little.

_ Mama Bear hurt his hand,  _ Sunny said, making a little squeaky growl before touching Miggs’ wrist again, indicating which hand was hurt. Peter paused at the use of "Mama Bear" but let it go, more concerned about how Miggs might have hurt himself. Peter carefully cupped Miggs’ elbow, sliding his hand down along Miggs’ arm to pull his left hand out from between them to inspect Miggs’ hand.

There was a burn along palm and forefinger of Miggs’ hand, not bad, but definitely enough to hurt.

“Ow,” Miggs muttered when Peter gently extended Miggs’ fingers to check the burn, sighing before letting go. Holding up his hand in a signal for Miggs to  _ wait, _ Peter went to the bathroom for the first aid kit and paused, looking at the towel covered carpet in front of it, and then the rest of the towels scattered all over the bathroom. Shaking his head, Peter shifted some of the towels out of the way so he could get under the sink, pulling out the first aid kit before returning to the living room. Heinz was inspecting his fire extinguisher by the door, laughing under his breath when he accidentally sprayed Kishan with it, who yelped and pranced away from where he was standing in front of Heinz. Arun was in the kitchen, poking through the foam coating the stove with a ladle, apparently in search of the pot on the burner.

Miggs and Sunny hadn’t moved from the couch, so Peter knelt back down in front of them, grimacing as he crushed popcorn under his feet on the way. Opening the kit, Peter pulled out burn ointment and bandages, setting them on the seat next to Miggs before reaching out to pull Sunny out of his lap. Sunny whined, clinging to Miggs for a second before huffing and letting Peter set him on the ground. Peter frowned, wondering how Sunny had grown so attached to Miggs already, especially when his first day had apparently been a disaster. Sunny hovered nearby as Peter took Miggs’ left wrist in one hand and used the other to flick open the cap to the ointment and squeeze a little onto Miggs’ burned palm.

“Ow! Fuck!” Miggs yelped, trying to yank his hand out of Peter’s grip as Peter used his thumb to smear the medicine over his injury. “Ow! It hurts!” Peter gave Miggs a flat look and kept his grip tight on Miggs’ wrist, working the ointment over the burn until he was satisfied, ignoring Miggs’ swearing and struggling. After he got the medicine sufficiently applied, Peter carefully wrapped a roll of gauze around his finger and palm, tearing it neatly and using a bit of medical tape to hold it in place.

Miggs yanked his hand back against his chest as soon as Peter let go, glaring at him. “Asshole,” Miggs growled, and Peter pointedly put both hands over Sunny’s ears, frowning at Miggs. Miggs grumbled and curled up tighter on the couch, looking down at his bandaged hand. Peter noticed that Miggs was wearing a pair of Peter’s lounge pants, and the sight made Peter stare for a long minute, wondering what the hell he was doing in them.

“Papa!” Peter looked up to see the twins in the kitchen with Heinz, the latter gingerly pulling a pot from the mess of foam on the stove.

_ What caused the fire?  _ Peter asked, pushing himself to his feet and petting at Sunny’s hair.

_ M-I-G-G-S cooking,  _ Arun replied, grinning when Peter glanced at the man sitting on the couch.

_ He put a whole carrot in the pot and the top caught on fire,  _ Kishan said, pointing at where a wrinkled, foam-flecked piece of charred, former carrot was hanging out the side of the blackened pot. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, and wondered why he’d thought bringing home a spoiled rich brat to play housekeeper and nanny was a good idea.

_ Okay,  _ Peter said after a second, sighing.  _ Thank you, Heinz. _

“No  _ prob _ lem,” Heinz said, setting the pot in the sink and grinning as he picked up his fire extinguisher instead to prop it on his hip like a baby. “Most fun I’ve had in a _ while. _ ” Peter rolled his eyes, waving the man away as he hugged the twins goodbye and left the apartment.

Peter looked over the warzone of an apartment and almost wanted to just lay on the ground and give up as his mental estimation of how much sleep he was going to get that night dwindled all the way down to  _ none. _

_ Go…get clean and ready for bed,  _ Peter signed at the twins, bending down to pick up Sunny and inspect him. There was something crunchy and pale in his hair, and he was almost unbearably sticky, face and hands gummy with what Peter suspected was jam. He’d probably need a full bath before going to bed, and Peter sighed, propping him on his hip and heading for the bathroom while the twins disappeared into their room to hopefully change clothes. Kicking what he was pretty sure was every towel he owned into the corner of the bathroom and picking the driest off the counter to lay it on the rack to dry off Sunny after bathing him, Peter got the water in the tub running and settled into the familiar rhythm of helping his youngest get clean.

Stripping Sunny down, Peter tossed his clothes into the laundry pile and pulled out his hearing aids, setting them on the counter before helping him into the warm, shallow water and wetting a cloth to start wiping down his sticky skin. He made sure to keep the soap out of his eyes as he worked out the crunchy…he was pretty sure it was the foam that was sticking to the couch and carpet in the living room, but he wasn’t positive, from Sunny’s hair.

“Peter?”

He looked around to see Miggs hesitantly peeking inside, injured hand cradled against his stomach. He looked like he needed a bath and sleep as much as Sunny did, popcorn in his curls and dark bags under his eyes, and Peter belatedly recalled that he left the man alone with his unruly children all day when he was still recovering from probably being hit by a boat and a long dip in the icy waters of the bay. Guilt churning in his gut, Peter suppressed a yawn and tilted his head at Miggs, inviting him to speak.

“Um. Are…” he shuffled awkwardly, looking down at his hands before sighing. “You’re mad at me.” Peter blinked, twitching when Sunny threw one of his few bath toys against the water, making it splash everywhere. Peter turned back to Sunny to settle him down, rinsing the soap out of his hair. Peter turned to see Miggs still standing there, looking miserable. Peter sighed and shook his head, grabbing a towel to pull Sunny out of the tub and start drying him off, wrapping him up in it before standing up and putting Sunny back on his hip. Miggs backed away uncertainly as Peter walked closer to him, Sunny yawning and putting his head on Peter’s shoulder as Peter snagged his hearing aids and tucked them in his pocket on the way out of the bathroom.

Peter used the corner of the towel to rub Sunny’s hair dry as he went into the kids’ room to put him in pajamas and lay him in bed. The twins took advantage of the empty bathroom while Peter was dressing Sunny, and Peter looked up when he heard Miggs let out a sound of surprise.

Kishan had his arms around Miggs’ waist, nuzzling against him in a hug before letting go and going to the bathroom after Arun. Peter frowned a little but put Sunny in his bed, smoothing down his damp curls to press a kiss to his forehead. Sunny kicked and grabbed Peter’s beard to kiss his chin back, making Peter grin.

_ Mama Bear, _ Sunny said when Peter pulled back, producing a high-pitched growl when Peter blinked in surprise.

_ What?  _ Peter asked, and Sunny frowned at him, repeating  _ Mama Bear,  _ before pushing himself into sitting up to grab the edge of Peter’s shirt and then point to where Miggs was. Peter turned to see Miggs awkwardly trying to tuck Arun in on his bunk, despite him mischievously sticking his foot out of the blanket and then one of his arms every time Miggs tried to wrap the blanket in around him. Peter watched as Miggs clearly got frustrated, muttering about duct taping Arun down to the mattress before finally getting him tucked in and moving on to Kishan.

_ Why do you call him that?  _ Peter asked, looking at Sunny with slightly narrowed eyes. Sunny frowned at him, glancing between Miggs and Peter before hesitantly answering.

_ You’re Papa Bear,  _ he said, enunciating Peter’s name sign before pointing at Miggs.  _ So he has to be Mama Bear. _

Peter was suddenly torn between dismay and heart-melting affection for his baby, unsure what to do or even say. Sunny apparently grew frustrated with Peter’s lack of action, crawling to the edge of his bed and smacking his hands against the frame and then squealing loudly to get Miggs’ attention as he straightened up from rolling Kishan up like a burrito with a scowl. Miggs turned towards Peter and Sunny, looking a little awkward as he met Peter’s gaze before looking away. He hesitantly stepped forward and uncertainly helped Sunny lay back down, pulling the blanket up around him and using stiff fingers to tuck it around Sunny’s body. Miggs’ face softened when Sunny yawned, leaning down to brush a kiss over his cheek.

Peter shepherded Miggs out of the kids’ room after that, switching off the light and shutting the door. Peter had a weird feeling in his stomach. Despite the apparent disaster the day had been in his absence, the kids were clearly taking to Miggs very well, almost well enough that it was making Peter worried.

Peter eyed Miggs uncertainly, watching him hover in the middle of the living room, nudging at the popcorn on the carpet with one bare foot.

Peter sighed and went to the kitchen, grabbing the bucket from under the sink to start scooping the fire extinguisher foam off the stove and dump it into the trash, cleaning mostly on autopilot, eyes blurry and burning with exhaustion.

Peter turned around to dump the last bucket of foam and nearly collided with Miggs, who was holding the trashcan in front of himself.

“Shit, sorry,” Miggs gasped, quickly scurrying back, awkwardly half-hugging the garbage can to avoid using his injured hand. Peter shook his head, waving a hand before dumping the last of the foam and setting the bucket aside to tie the bag shut and take the can from Miggs to replace the bag.

“I…I have no idea what I’m doing,” Miggs admitted after a second, running his uninjured hand through his hair and grimacing as he pulled a few pieces of popcorn free. Peter nodded, patting Miggs on the shoulder. “Have I always been this awful at parenting?” Miggs asked, and Peter shrugged. “God.” Miggs put his hands over his face, blowing out a breath. “I’m exhausted.” Peter hummed and nodded, waving a hand at the bedroom. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway.

“What about you?” Miggs asked, frowning, and Peter waved a hand around the wrecked apartment, shrugging. Miggs stared at him and then sighed, turning away to start gathering bits of popcorn from the carpet and tossing them into the garbage. Peter watched him for a second before rubbing at his forehead and letting him do what he wanted.

Peter wiped down the stove and cleaned all the burners, washing out the pot and wondering what the hell Miggs had been trying to make with whole carrots, pasta, tomatoes and what Peter thought was possibly cheese slices. It was hard to tell, what with the mix of fire and extinguishing foam in there as well. He glanced up as he wiped down the counters and cleaned up a half-dried glob of jam from the floor, watching Miggs collect toilet paper and popcorn and dried foam mostly one-handed, his injured palm pressed against his stomach.

Together, after about two hours, the apartment was almost completely functional again, just maybe needing a wall wash and vacuum, which both could wait until Peter was less about to fall asleep on his feet.

After he threw away the last of the trash, Peter pulled out his notepad and slowly wrote out a note, frowning at the slight doubling of his vision. He really needed to sleep.

“What—?” Miggs jumped a little when Peter tapped his shoulder to get his attention before showing him the note. Miggs blinked, taking the notepad from Peter so it would be steady enough for him to read.

**_I’m not mad at you._ **

“Oh,” Miggs said after a second, looking up to give Peter a weak, relieved smile. “Oh, that’s…that’s good.” Peter nodded, reaching up with one hand to rub at his eyes, trying to keep his brain from getting too scrambled. Miggs handed the notepad back to Peter, ducking his head shyly and reaching up to tug nervously at one of the curls in front of his ears.

Peter signed something without thinking, and Miggs stared at him for a second, mouth turning down slightly with a frown.

“What does that mean?” Miggs asked after a second, and Peter shifted awkwardly, glancing between Miggs and the floor and struggling not to grimace.

Peter’s children had not sprung fully formed from the ground, obviously. And it had been a while since he’d taken a trip down memory lane, and the knowledge that someone he really didn’t like had reminded him of…

“Peter?”

He looked up to see Miggs staring at him, biting his lip. Peter noticed almost absently that Miggs had a gap in his front teeth. After a second, Peter sighed and translated his thoughtless signs for Miggs, pushing the notepad into his hands before walking away.

**_I missed you._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> comments are love, comments are life
> 
> lmk if we missed any mistakes or [brackets]!

**Author's Note:**

> comments are love comments are life ;0 
> 
> lmk if i missed any [brackets] or mistakes! <3


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